


The Trouble with Spores

by Elenothar



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Cornwell just wants this crew to stop giving her headaches, Developing Relationship, F/M, Getting Together, spores ex machina, texting in space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 15:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: One moment Michael Burnham is walking alongside Captain Pike in the dusk that comes startlingly early on Stellanis, contemplating suggesting they call off the fruitless search for their strange readings’ origins – the next she steps over some protruding roots and the world explodes into particles of light.An away mission gone sideways leaves Michael and Pike unable to exceed a certain radius from each other. Turns out that keeping her feelings for him under wraps is easier said than done when occupying the same set of quarters.





	The Trouble with Spores

**Author's Note:**

> General warning for the forced proximity trope, though it doesn't go beyond 'oh no, we have to stay in the same quarters for a while'. Star Trek is tropey, what can you do. I did retcon Pike knowing about Mirror Georgiou from the beginning, because it simply made no sense for Starfleet Command to keep it from him if he was briefed on Lorca and the mirror universe.
> 
> I also apologise for the barely credible pseudo-science throughout. Just, go with it?
> 
> Massive thanks to alethia for betaing and generally being super helpful.

*

One moment Michael Burnham is walking alongside Captain Pike in the dusk that comes startlingly early on Stellanis, contemplating suggesting they call off the fruitless search for their strange readings’ origins – the next she steps over some protruding roots and the world explodes into particles of light.

Michael’s first thought is that they’ve been transported, but she stays firmly materialised and the light is of a different quality and shade than a transporter beam. She turns to find Pike’s hand falling away from the phaser at his hip, eyes wide in surprise and no little wonder, if she judges the expression right.

“Burnham?” he says, soft, as if unwilling to disturb the lazily swirling motes.

Michael shakes her head, already taking out her tricorder to get accurate readings of the phenomenon. “I haven’t come across anything like this before.”

As the movement of air stills everywhere but around her hands, little specks of light settle on them both, soon covering skin and clothes alike. Waiting for the tricorder to finish scanning, Michael looks over at Pike and has to swallow hard. His silver strands of hair gleam as if lit from within, and her gaze is drawn to the lights dotted across his cheeks, the glittering sweep of his eyelashes. Since when does she notice _eyelashes_?

Michael’s heart flutters. There’s something heady in the air and before she quite knows what she’s doing, she has raised her free hand, fingers brushing along Pike’s glittering cheek, as if checking whether the motes would rub off (they don’t).

As if she couldn’t have tested that on her own hand.

A moment later, mortification crashes over her in a wave and she draws back her traitorous hand, a full-bodied flinch. Michael’s jaw tightens at the unconscionable loss of control. This isn’t like her. Or maybe it is, and she’s just usually better at curbing her more… outrageous impulses. An aesthetic appreciation of the Captain is all well and good (according to Tilly anyway, who doesn’t in the least share Michael’s reflexive unease at such things), but she has been doing her best to ignore all the other feelings that well up when he’s calm and assertive in a crisis, gentle and kind with those who need it, exuding warmth when in her presence.

Michael swallows past a suddenly dry throat.

Yet when she meets Pike’s gaze, she finds no approbation, just flickering curiosity underlaid with warmth. It’s an expression he wears a lot, not that she should know that, taking the measure of her new Captain or not. She hasn’t quite let herself think that perhaps he wears it particularly often around her.

Michael flushes, a delayed reaction she could’ve done without, clears her throat. “It appears the unknown organism has attached itself to us.”

Pike groans theatrically, and even though she _knows_ it’s designed to relax her, damn him, it works. She breathes out.

“I hate decontamination procedures,” he grouses, although his hand is already reaching for his communicator.

She raises a brow, glad to be back in more familiar territory. “A logical procedure to ensure the ship’s safety.”

“Yes,” Pike sighs, “but a long and boring one. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer not to be poked and prodded like a specimen for study.”

Michael gears up to point out the differences between scientific experiments and what’s about to happen, then thinks better of it. Pike _knows_ these things, is just grumbling to get a rise out of her and lighten the mood. In fact, she’d managed to mostly put the mortification about her earlier slip out of her mind, despite her usual tendency to brood on her failures until the stars go out (Tilly’s words). Of course, now that she has consciously recalled it, she also can’t help but viscerally notice that Pike is still quite literally _glowing_. He looks almost alien – _otherworldly_ the part of her mind that never quite assimilated to Vulcan thought supplies – with pinpricks of light all over his face, hair and clothes.

So Michael only shakes her head, rueful and fond in a way that both comes reflexively to her, with him, and conveniently might just divert his attention.

Pike grins at her as he flips his comm open. “Pike to _Discovery_. Two to beam up, full decon protocol.”

“Are you all right, Captain?” Saru responds immediately, sounding worried. “What happened?”

“We’re fine, Saru,” Pike confirms, voice steady and soothing. “Just some unknown plant pollen on both me and Commander Burnham. So far no noticeable ill-effects, but better safe than sorry.”

“As you say,” Saru agrees, as if he would ever disagree with that notion. “Beaming you up and initialising decontamination protocols now.”

Michael lets the familiar moment of dematerialisation flow over her, breathing deeply in the drier recycled ship air to keep her pulse steady. They reappear within the bland walls of the ship’s small decontamination chamber. In the harsh fluorescent light, some of the wonder of the little motes of light slips away, but Michael still keeps her gaze away from Pike’s star-bespeckled face. She had been doing an adequate job at compartmentalising these feelings, once she had identified them. It had seemed better than engaging with such a mess in the making, but now careful avoidance had turned into a near storm of barely-controlled emotions over the last hour.

_Guess the Vulcans have a point about denial_, she thinks sourly. She wonders whether the metaphorical dam in her head would have inevitably crumbled and just happened to reach its overtaxed maximum now, or whether the mysterious spores had somehow punched an artificial hole through her carefully-constructed avoidance. It’s hard to say which option is more unsettling.

Before she can stew much longer – and incur more than one faintly worried look from Pike – the decontamination protocol begins with the computer instructing her to step to one side and Pike to the other. She can just make out the long-suffering look on his face before a barrier shimmers into life between them, granting privacy for the next step.

Michael doesn’t even realise she’s smiling until she has transmitted the tricorder’s data and is halfway out of her shirt. Once all her clothes are stuffed into the chute through which they’ll be taken away for study, the computer (unnecessarily) coaches her through taking swabs of her skin and allowing the equipment access for taking a blood sample. Only then does the true decontamination process begin and Michael spends the next ten minutes trying not to shiver under the sonic shower, ramped up beyond its usual pressure and intensity. She has never had the luxury of being body-shy (illogical), but Vulcans are _very _private about their own nudity, to the point that most Federation species have trouble seeing them as sexual beings at all. Michael knows _that_ for the misconception it is, but on a personal level… well, she can count the people she’s been naked in front of on one hand and while technically no one is watching her, the thought of Captain Pike, no more than two meters away, equally unclothed, is a lot to process. Shivers seem only fair, if mildly irritating. The last time she had felt so out of control of her own body had been with Ash. That had not… gone well. In the end. And the middle had been pretty turbulent as well. She can admit to herself, silently, that the thought of opening herself up to that kind of hurt again scares her, on a deep level beyond her conscious control. Besides, Pike is the _Captain_, and one concerned with propriety at that. She doubts taking up with someone directly under his command fits in his world view.

No, she should really focus on the here and now, instead of dreaming of things that will never happen. This is exactly why she hadn’t engaged with her feelings on this matter further in the first place.

When the shower finally ceases, even her sharp eyes can’t pick up any remaining glitter on her skin. It’s almost a shame. Michael doesn’t usually care much about her appearance beyond practicality, but it _had_ looked pretty on her dark skin. On Captain Pike’s light skin too, but she’s trying not to think about that too much.

Still, it’s a relief to pull on the underwear and uniform that the replicator spits out, and Michael draws up the zip of her uniform jacket with perhaps slightly more emphasis than usual.

When asked by the computer whether she wishes the privacy screen to stay up, she doesn’t hesitate to reply in the negative. The waiting is always the worst part of decon procedures and Pike has a proven track record of distracting her mind. In all kinds of ways, it seems.

He must’ve chosen the same, for a moment later the barrier disappears and she finds the Captain looking at her measuringly from the other side, as clean and speckle-free as she is.

“You good, Burnham?”

She inclines her head. “Fine, sir.”

As always, he does her the courtesy of taking her words at face value and lets his expression morph into a scowl. “The waiting is always the worst part.”

Michael’s lips quirk at his echoing of her own thoughts. “I’m sure Doctor Pollard will do her utmost to get speedy results.”

Pike acknowledges her point with a nod and a sigh, but there’s still something of a slump in his shoulders when he drops onto the bench protruding from the wall. He gestures for her to join him. “Might as well get as comfortable as we can in the meantime. I expect it’ll be a while, no slight intended towards the good doctor’s speediness.”

Michael can’t really argue with that, so she sits down on the bench, leaving a respectable amount of space between them.

“So,” Pike says, folding his hands behind his head and sounding for all the stars like they’re comfortable in his ready room, not sitting in the decontamination suite, “who’s winning the latest round of that word game you play in the commissary?”

“The auto-antonym game? Last I heard Linus and Reno were tied.” She smirks. “And getting increasingly more competitive over it. People have been placing bets.”

Pike’s smile morphs into a playful grimace. “If someone should ask, I’ll claim temporary deafness. I’m sure my science officer _didn’t_ just tell me about unauthorised gambling on my ship.” He winks. “Just imagine the admirals’ faces if I was forced to point out to them that we _all know_ every single starship crew in the history of the Federation has had bets going about one thing or another, and that, frankly, we have worse things to worry about.” He snorts lightly. “That would go over well. They already keep pointedly raising their eyebrows at me over the ‘ridiculousness’ of my reports. I keep telling them that if they didn’t keep demanding reports on every little thing, preferably in star-forsaken triplicate, then they wouldn’t have to read so much ‘provocative’ material.”

“We do get into some… interesting situations,” Michael acknowledges, comfortable enough with him these days to know that he’s only joking, where she might once have bristled defensively.

Pike rubs a hand along his brow. “This light spore business isn’t going to help.”

There’s a serious complaint buried under the lightness, Michael thinks, and wonders whether the admiralty truly has been giving their Captain grief.

“Surely they can’t hold you responsible for such accidents?”

Pike’s expression is nothing sort of sheepishly long-suffering. “Not as such, but it seems I’m acquiring something of a reputation.”

Michael raises a brow. “That of a good, diligent Captain who does his best by his crew?”

The startled warmth in his eyes reaches into Michael’s heart and tweaks, just a little. It’s not news that Pike doesn’t think of himself in such terms, though she wouldn’t call him needlessly self-doubting, but he’s always so _steady_ that it’s easy to forget that even a good leader can do with occasional affirmations of his people’s faith in him.

Still, when he speaks again Michael isn’t surprised he’s deflecting. Pike has never been anything but humble, for all his achievements.

“More that of someone whose reports are as good for a laugh as they are worrying.” His lips twist dryly. “The _Enterprise_ has only just returned from her five-year mission and sitting out the war. I’ve been absent more than present for years. Some increased scrutiny is only to be expected.”

Michael has to close her throat against the angry words that want to spill out. He doesn’t need her to defend him. Still…

“They gave you this mission, sir, and the _Discovery_, even after all we went through. That implies a greater measure of trust than you seem to postulate.”

Pike flashes her a quick smile. “Oh, scrutiny isn’t distrust, I’m well aware of that. And considering the circumstances it does make sense. It’s simply a little uncomfortable after years of receiving a message every other month, if we were lucky.” He straightens, tone turning a little brisker. “Never mind all that, there is no true reason to worry.”

Michael nods her assent, although she would make no promise to forget his words. It’s only logical to be aware of all the challenges her Captain is facing.

“Besides, my history of creative report writing spans all the way back to the academy. We used to challenge each other to write the most outrageous reports, while still technically following all the guidelines.” He grins, cheeks dimpling. “Just to see how far we could push our instructors.”

“We?” Michael asks, curiosity rearing its head. Pike has always been open about his past, ever since he strode onto the bridge and didn’t bat an eyelid at Tilly accidentally projecting his file on the screen for all to see, but she doesn’t know much about his time at the academy.

Pike’s expression turns sad. “Philippa. We came through the academy together. She was… a good friend.”

Familiar grief rises deep in Michael’s heart, grief she doesn’t think she’ll ever truly be able to let go. But perhaps sharing it, perhaps that could be all right. “You miss her too.”

“Yes,” Pike says, caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan, deep in his chest. “I’m just glad my briefing on your mirror world was… thorough.”

Michael nods. The lie, that the Georgiou from the other universe is their own Captain Georgiou, returned from retirement, is an unkind one to all who had known her.

Seeing the struggle on his face, Michael wonders if he hasn’t allowed himself to grieve out loud, to share his burden. Knowing how anguished he was to have sat out the war (_it took a toll on my crew, on all of us__),_ perhaps the idea of commiserating with somebody who actively participated has been too large a hurdle. The thought brings her up short. Normally Michael’s immediate assumption would’ve been that he blames her for starting the war like so many did and do, and yet in this instance the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind.

They sit in shared silence for a while.

“She won the competition, you know, hands down,” Pike finally murmurs, an almost-smile shaping his lips. “She wrote a 5,000 word report about a fictional scenario detailing what would happen if the Vulcans decided to invade the Earth and her ship was the only one in orbit. A completely bogus premise, but meticulously researched. Apparently the Commander who had to grade it laughed so hard they cried.”

A little to her surprise, Michael finds that she is smiling. The thought of a younger Philippa, not as honed but every inch as passionate, is charming even as she aches for never having witnessed it.

Pike studies her expression, eyes lightening a bit at what he sees, and without prompting proceeds to regale her with more tales of what a young Philippa Georgiou and Christopher Pike got up to at the academy.

In between stories of Philippa trouncing a particularly annoying security cadet in hand-to-hand combat, both of them getting in very hot water for their very public and scathing reaction to the Kobayashi Maru (95 pieces of paper affixed to the hall doors), and pranking Leland by programming his PADD to bark like a puppy every time he got a message or tried to open a document, time flies by. Michael is too enthralled to muster surprise. Besides, Pike has always been good company and an even better conversationalist.

When Doctor Pollard finally steps into their little chamber, two hours have passed without much heed from either of them.

“Neither of you are infectious,” Doctor Pollard announces immediately, eyes on the PADD with their test results. “The… pollen, for lack of a better word, is entirely inert.”

Pike raises a brow. “But?”

Michael hides a smile. He is always intuitive in a way she can’t help but admire. Sometimes she wonders if it’s a captain thing; Philippa had been, too. Much of what Vulcans strive to do with logic, the captains she has known instinctively understand, weighing experience, body language and other cues without the need for conscious thought process. Which is not to say that they do not use logic at all, or that their intuition is always correct, but it’s still… impressive.

Michael has been getting more comfortable with her own humanity in recent times; perhaps one day she too will be able to do this.

Pollard’s lips thin, a sign of worry Michael has observed in her before. “Both of you have some of the foreign agent in your blood. As far as we can tell, it’s not currently affecting you, but there’s no way to tell if it’ll stay that way. Ideally we would keep you under observation until the contaminant can be neutralised.”

Pike is shaking his head before she has finished speaking. “Not an option, unless it becomes a danger to ourselves or others. This mission is too time-sensitive – Commander Burnham and I are needed at our stations.” He smiles at Pollard, a small thing designed to set her ease. “Besides I feel fine. Burnham?”

Michael folds her hands behind her back, straightening a little under the two inquisitive gazes now aimed in her direction. “I have observed no ill-effects so far, Doctor.”

“There you go,” Pike says, implacable. “As long as you don’t conclude a risk to either of us or the people around us, we _will _do our jobs.”

But Pollard isn’t so easily cowed. “Dealing with unknown substances is so risky, _Captain_, exactly because we aren’t able to predict ill-effects before they’re already impacting the victim’s health. I’m willing to let you both return to duty if _and only if_ you allow me to monitor your bio readings as you go about your day, and you come to sickbay twice a day to give more blood samples.” Her gaze turns even steelier. “If you start feeling unwell or anything seems out of the ordinary, you report back to sickbay _immediately_. Is that clear?”

Next to her Pike sighs, a tiny gesture so shallow that Michael doesn’t think Doctor Pollard even catches it.

“Very well, Doctor.” Pike holds out his left arm with a flourish. “Shackle me.”

Doctor Pollard shakes her head at him. She is not a woman given to smiles, as far as Michael has observed, but there are the beginnings of one playing around her lips as she turns away to fetch the medical bracelets.

“Say, Captain, did you by any chance take the amateur dramatics class in your tenure at the academy?”

Pike grins, winks. “I can’t recall them offering such a course as part of the curriculum, but fortunately I never needed much direction in that area.”

Michael bites back her own smile. The image of dignified Captain Pike waving about a fake rapier on a stage, or perhaps too gravely intoning a soliloquy is unexpectedly funny – perhaps because he’s just the type of man who wouldn’t mind making a little bit of a fool of himself to entertain others, without noticeably impacting his own dignity.

Outfitted with the bracelets, they’re finally allowed to leave sickbay, though neither of them stoop so low as to visibly hurry.

“Oh, and Captain?” Pollard’s voice is saccharine. “You’re on restricted duty, ship-only. No away missions until the contaminant is cleared.”

Pike turns back, shoulders a tight line, and gives her a brusque nod. “As you say, Doctor.”

As compromises with the medical team, who are notoriously cut-throat, go, it’s not the worst one Michael has ever encountered.

*

By the end of beta shift – Captain Pike’s only concession to their potential impairment, leaving Saru to take care of alpha – Michael has started to relax a little from her state of hypervigilance. While logic insists that passing time does not make delayed effects from the spores impossible, the longer she goes without symptoms the larger the hope that they won’t be affected at all grows.

She’s down in engineering, listening to Stamets expound on his latest spore theory past the time she should have clocked off, vaguely considering a trip to the gym afterwards, when a vice clamps around her heart. Her breathing stutters and within one laboured inhale and the next, a pull starts dragging her forwards, dragging at her veins, her pores, her skin, _everything_.

As she stumbles forward, half concentrating on breathing, half following the imperative screaming of her body, Michael is dimly aware of concerned voices all around her, Stamets’ voice raised to a near-panicky pitch he’s surely going to deny later. It almost rivals Tilly’s shrill tones.

Once she’s made it up the stairs, supported by several hands, with every new step the pressure grows lighter, until she can lean against the wall in the corridor, breathing slowly easing around the continued tugging sensation. She has never felt anything like it.

Michael blinks through the sweat pouring down her brow and Tilly and Stamets’ concerned faces blur into view.

“What was that?” Stamets demands.

Michael can only shake her head. “Sickbay,” she gasps.

“You think?” Stamets demands, because his way of coping with stress is to dial up his already high sarcasm levels to maximum.

“Sickbay, yes, good idea, great idea,” Tilly is babbling, already pulling Michael along, “we should go _right now_.”

Michael suddenly becomes aware that her medical bracelet is beeping and lighting up with an array of colours, which explains the medical team that greets them before they’ve even made it to the turbolift.

With a sinking feeling, Michael notes that Doctor Pollard is not among them. The only reason the chief medical officer wouldn’t respond to a crisis like this one is if there’s a concurrent crisis taking place somewhere else.

In this case, the odds that the other medical emergency was Captain Pike is worryingly high.

And indeed when the two nurses escort her into sickbay, an arm around her shoulder keeping her upright whether she needs it or not (though at least they hadn’t insisted on the stretcher when they’d seen her walk under her own steam), she finds Captain Pike already sitting on one of the biobeds. He looks pale, a sheen of sweat on his own face, but otherwise hale.

Which doesn’t explain why Doctor Pollard looks so grim as she runs a tricorder over his torso.

Pike’s eyes flicker over to Michael. “Concurrent?”

“It appears that way, sir,” Michael answers, letting herself be pushed towards the bed nearest to Pike. She barely has time to blink before a nurse has taken a blood sample and readouts appear on the screen next to the biobed.

The furrow in his brow deepens into unhappy lines, lips pressed together as if he’s only just stopping himself from swearing.

“Both your vital signs went haywire at exactly the same time,” Pollard confirms, frowning down at her PADD. “Same patterns too. Elevated blood pressure, brain activity spiking, fluctuating hormone levels.”

There’s an obvious logical conclusion.

“Related to the unknown particles from the spores?” Michael asks.

Instead of answering, Doctor Pollard steps forward, opening a medical tricorder screen in front of Michael’s chest. Set for vein analysis, they can all see the minute particles whizzing around the usual red and white blood cells. She repeats the procedure with Captain Pike, whose blood shows exactly the same thing.

“Not dormant anymore, I would say,” Pollard observes grimly. “Everything else is reading normal again. Describe your symptoms for me?”

Michael exchanges a look with Pike, whose faint grimace speaks to his reluctance, but even as she thinks it, his lips tilt in rueful acceptance. He never does allow anyone else to take one for the team if he’s capable of doing it himself.

“Unpleasant,” he says, prompting an eyebrow raise from Pollard. “One moment I was fine, the next there was pressure around my heart, I was having trouble breathing, and there was a…” He hesitates, gaze flicking over to Michael again. Whatever is happening to them both, it’s clear he’s already developing a theory. “A pull towards a specific direction. Frankly, it felt like my innards were trying to jump out my skin. As soon as I moved in that direction, the severity of the sensations decreased.”

“Hmm.” Pollard is making notes on her PADD, deep in thought. “What were you doing?”

Pike shrugs. “Nothing unusual. I missed my workout this morning, so I was running.”

Pollard nods, then turns to Michael. “And you, Commander?”

“I was in engineering, helping Stamets with some calculations. Symptoms exactly as the Captain described them.”

Pollard works that over for a moment, then calls up a map of the ship on her PADD. A few taps, and a red dot appears in engineering.

“Captain, where were you running?”

Pike raises a brow, but answers gamely enough. “Deck 2. I had just passed the gym.”

A golden dot appears on the map.

“Heading towards?”

Pike’s gaze sharpens and Michael can almost see the way puzzle pieces slot into place in his mind. Certainly, a possibility – unlikely, but, she supposes, not _im_possible – is dawning in her own.

“Fore.”

Another tap, and the golden dot heads towards the front of the ship, in doing so widening the distance between it and the red dot.

A shiver of foreboding travels down Michael’s spine.

Pollard looks down at the map, then up at Michael and Pike, dark gaze serious. “I think we need to run some more tests.”

*

An hour of trying tests follows. Trying, because Michael’s role consists solely of sitting in sickbay and letting someone monitor her vitals, since Captain Pike had immediately shot down her idea of being the one to move away from sickbay and instead gone with Doctor Pollard himself.

Michael is still silently frustrated by the time they make it back, three incidents of her body going haywire later. The cobbled-together explanation for why they can’t seem to exceed a certain radius from each other (attraction between the spore particles in their respective bloods) doesn’t help either. Perhaps she would be more excited about the scientific mystery if she wasn’t the one directly impacted until the medical research team can come up with some way of neutralising the spores in her and the Captain’s blood.

Given that they are perfectly fine as long as they stay within a certain distance of each other, Doctor Pollard grudgingly agrees that they’ll be allowed to resume restricted duties, still monitored by the medical bracelet, which now also sports a distance alarm. From the doctor’s expression it’s clear that she would prefer to keep them under observation in medical, but once Michael has pointed out that they have all the readings (and blood samples) they could possibly need already, she doesn’t have enough of an argument to go against Pike’s decision to keep working. Michael is grateful for it – she’s a terrible patient even when something is actively wrong with her. Forced inactivity in sickbay while she’s perfectly fine and only waiting on someone coming up with an idea how to neutralise the spores is far from appealing. She can’t even properly help the medical research team. Neither medicine nor botany are her speciality, and it would just be a waste of time for them to catch her up until she can contribute something useful.

All in all, it’s a frustrated and unsettled Michael Burnham who leaves sickbay with Captain Pike. Usually she appreciates his ability to keep his emotions off his face, but right now she’d really like a glimpse into his feelings about the whole situation.

But perhaps she doesn’t need to read his face to know, because they both halt just outside sickbay’s doors in the corridor, an unusual hesitance about Pike’s movements, where he’s usually so confident in his actions, steps decisive and sure.

Michael’s skin prickles. An awkwardness hangs in the air between them and she _hates _it. She has never felt awkward around him, much to her surprise, not even at their first meeting. For someone who used to be too Vulcan for humans and too human for Vulcans – and that was before she became the first Starfleet mutineer in the history of the Federation – that is a _gift_.

Then Pike’s stance relaxes, the line of his shoulders loosening, and he manages a lop-sided smile, rueful but honest. “Can’t say I expected that. Starfleet doesn’t put enough warnings into the small print when they sign you up.”

“They do say you’ll encounter strange new worlds,” Michael says, some of her tension seeping away.

“So they do.” Pike’s smile fades to something earnest and slightly pained. “I’m sorry, Burnham. This curtailment of freedom is more than I would ever ask of a crewmember.”

Michael shakes her head. “It’s not your doing. We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, it could be worse.”

Pike dips his head, accepting her point, for all that his mind doesn’t seem entirely at rest yet. “Still, it can’t be comfortable to be bound to your Captain this way.”

“Better you than most.” In fact, just the thought of being linked to some ensign or lieutenant is enough to make a shudder travel down her spine. It registers just a moment too late what she’s just said, possibly _revealed_.

Pike snorts lightly, but his gaze is fixed on a wall panel, not on her, and she doesn’t get the impression that the sound was aimed at her. He seems entirely oblivious to the meaning behind her words, or perhaps too distracted by their situation to pick up on it. That would be preferable.

But when he looks at Michael again, there _is_ something intense and burning in his gaze that has her back straighten reflexively.

“Just… promise me, Michael, that you’ll come to me or Doctor Pollard if anything makes you uncomfortable, beyond the situation itself.”

Startled at his sudden intensity, Michael nods, watches as Pike seems to deflate a little, though she can’t tell whether it’s relief or something else.

“Good.” He sighs. “I’ll go brief Mr Saru on the situation. Contact me if you need to go to the farther reaches of the ship for any reason.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael says, and watches him stride off.

*

Tilly jumps up from her bed the moment Michael makes it through the door into their shared quarters.

“What happened, are you alright? Did Doctor Pollard fix what was wrong? Stamets and I would’ve come in but Nurse Xing kicked us out, something about unhelpful hovering, but I really wanted to know you’re alright and no one said anything, _are _you alright?”

Before Michael can actually say anything, Tilly’s gaze falls on the medical bracelet – currently sporting a green light indicating she’s well within the maximum distance from Pike – and her eyes widen. “Why are you still wearing that? Did they not find the problem?” Apparently Michael didn’t try hard enough to break into the flow of words to reassure her friend, because Tilly’s voice pitches higher into near-panic. “Promise me you aren’t dying.”

“I’m not dying, Tilly,” Michael says gently, and it’s not exactly a lie because they don’t really know what’s happening, much less whether whatever it is might end up being fatal. It’s not only for her and Captain Pike’s sake that she hopes the outcome won’t be quite so dire – the crew of the _Discovery_ would not cope well with losing two senior officers, so soon after the war and the mirror universe.

“Then what? Why aren’t you in sickbay?”

Michael steps forward, pushes Tilly to sit on her bed and settles beside her. Then she explains what’s been happening since she half-collapsed in engineering.

By the end of it, Tilly’s eyes are still wide and she’s twisting a lock of hair around her finger compulsively. “You’re not in any danger at the moment?”

Michael shakes her head. “Not unless we exceed the maximum distance between us. The medical team is working on a way to neutralise the particles in our blood.”

Tilly nods, looking a little more relaxed now that she knows Michael isn’t going to keel over any minute.

“So you’re saying,” she begins slowly, clearly still wrapping her mind around the whole thing, not that Michael can blame her, “that these spores somehow linked you to the Captain? _Our_ Captain?”

“He’s the only Captain around, Tilly.”

While it’s good to see Tilly lose that edge of panic, the emerging mischievous twinkle has gotten Michael into hot emotional water more than once. She braces herself.

“You do realise that you’re living half the crew’s dreams right now, right?”

Michael stares at her. “I did mention the debilitating pain if we exceed the distance limit, did I not?”

“Yes, all right, that part isn’t great,” Tilly says, hand waving around vaguely as she switches to sympathy and back in a heartbeat. “But this is the stupidly handsome Captain who’s nice to everyone and hasn’t really let anyone close enough to learn about _him _yet. Besides, you like him. This is an opportunity, Michael.”

Michael stills, _you like him _echoing in her mind with the force of ice water pouring over her head. She should’ve known better than to think Tilly wouldn’t have noticed, always so astute in all matters Michael, particularly all matters Michael that Michael doesn’t want to think about.

She takes a deep breath and puts it aside for now. They can have _that_ particular conversation when she isn’t under the influence of unknown spore particles. And there’s another part of Tilly’s statement that bothers Michael.

“You’re not suggesting I take advantage of this situation. It’s already... _invasive_ enough.”

“I’m not telling you to jump his bones, just, you know, talk to him a little more, stuff like that.”

Michael has to lock her jaw against the instinctive revulsion rising through her throat at the thought of basing her behaviour around the Captain on this _situation _they’ve found themselves in.

Tilly regards her, gaze turned serious. “This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Sometimes Michael misses the time when she was a mystery, face unreadable to colleagues. But of course Tilly is far more than a colleague, now. She takes a deep breath. “I’m not in control of my body, Tilly, and we don’t really know what these spores are doing to us. Yes, it bothers me.”

“Spores,” Tilly suddenly yelps, palm hitting her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of this earlier? You need Stamets!”

Taken aback by Tilly’s sudden enthusiasm, Michael raises her brows. “Explain.”

“_Spores_, Michael. It’s kinda his thing?”

Michael opens her mouth to point out that plant spores aren’t the same as the mycelium spores Stamets has devoted his life to studying, but Tilly steamrolls right over her. “They may not be the same as the spores we use for the jumps, but he’s still really knowledgeable about all kinds of spore types. What can it hurt?”

_What can it hurt_ isn’t exactly a convincing, logical argument.

“He’s busy, you know that.”

Tilly bristles, either in defence of Michael’s priority status or Stamets’ priorities. “Not too busy to help you, especially if I back you up. We’ve got a bond, you know, we all grew on him even if he pretends it isn’t true. Just ask.”

Michael sighs, but truly, there isn’t a good _counter_argument either. She toggles the intercom. “Burnham to Captain Pike.”

It only takes a few seconds for Pike’s voice to come over the intercom. “Pike here.”

“Ensign Tilly thinks we should ask Mr Stamets for help on our situation, sir.”

Pike takes a moment to think it through, but his voice doesn’t offer any hint as to his feelings when he replies, “Go ahead and brief Mr Stamets, if you believe it beneficial. I’ll avoid deck one and two while you’re in engineering, try to be done before beta. Pike out.”

Tilly grins. “Field trip to engineering!”

*

Michael keeps a weather eye on the proximity light as they walk. She may be able to cope with pain – Suss Mahna is no martial art to learn for anyone who shies away from it, especially not a young, vulnerable human surrounded by stronger Vulcans – but that doesn’t mean she seeks it out. The light stays reassuringly green, not that she’d expected Pike to break his word.

Stamets has a canister of spores out when they enter, fiddling with the containment seal, but as soon as he catches sight of Michael and Tilly he puts it aside. Michael is glad he doesn’t then rush over to them, or start bombarding her with questions about her health. That would’ve been _too_ unlike him.

Tilly, on the other hand, has no such compunctions. She bounces over to him, already talking a mile a minute. “Michael and the Captain have been spore-whammied and need your help. It’s totally cool aside from the, you know, terrifying symptoms, but we thought, well, _I_ thought, that you’re really the spore expert around here so you’re totally the right person to come to to try and figure this out.”

Stamets has the same expression people wear around Tilly a lot, the slightly blank look of someone trying to puzzle through all her verbal tangents, but his is tinged by a fondness that is, if not new, at least not original to his interactions with Tilly.

“Spore-whammied?” he repeats.

Michael steps forward, lest Tilly’s explanation take up the next ten minutes. “Captain Pike and I were exposed to unknown plant-based spores down on the planet.” She hands him a PADD with all the information the doctors had been able to gather. “There’s a foreign contaminant in our blood, inert most of the time, unless he and I exceed a certain radius from each other. You witnessed the effects of that yourself.”

Stamets is already flicking through the information, pausing on the chemical make-up of the spore remnants recovered from their uniforms. A line forms between his brows. “These are not mushroom spores.”

“No,” Michael agrees, well-aware of where his mind is going. “I did point that out to Tilly, but she’s steadfast in her belief in your superior knowledge of all things spore-related. The medical research team is also looking for answers.” She smiles, keenly aware of the irony. “If nothing else, it probably makes for interesting reading.”

Tilly ignores the byplay, still focused on Stamets. “What do you think? Is Team Spore Drive going to be helping save Michael and the Captain from having to get pseudo-married?”

The sheer infectiousness of Tilly’s enthusiasm and determination, Michael reflects, are going to make her an excellent captain. They’re also often the only thing that let her get away with saying some of the frankly outrageous things that come out of her mouth.

She sighs, an entirely psychosomatic headache lighting up behind her eyes. “No one is getting married, Tilly.”

Tilly puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head. Michael half expects more teasing, but Tilly’s voice is, if anything, suddenly a little subdued. “Think about it, Michael. If you can’t get this figured out, you’re never going to be separated again. No postings on different ships, no shore leave without the other, no retirement for him while you remain in the fleet. Neither of you could sustain a relationship with someone else with that going on.”

Michael and Stamets both wince. Stamets in sympathy, and Michael because she has tried very hard not to think of a future where they don’t get this problem solved. The prospect of having her life dictated to such an extent is bleak at best and her mood isn’t helped by the persistent voice in the back of her mind pointing out that if it has to be anyone, Christopher Pike would’ve been her first choice. Because it _hadn’t _been her choice – worse, it hadn’t been _his_ choice, either – and what relationship could possibly flourish on such an intrusive foundation?

Surprisingly, Stamets provides the reluctant voice of optimism. “We haven’t ruled out finding a solution yet. I haven’t even looked at all the data.”

Michael lets out a long breath, trying not to be too obvious in her relief. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” Stamets says sourly. “What do you take me for?”

‘Told you’, Tilly mouths at Michael, as if her face isn’t just as visible to Stamets as it is to Michael.

Stamets rolls his eyes, even as he’s busy transferring the data onto one of the workstations for easier viewing. “Let’s have a look at this then.”

Tilly grins. “Science is a go!”

Michael smiles back, as helpless in the face of Tilly as Stamets. She does feel more hopeful about her situation with the two of them on the case. It’s entirely illogical – the medical research team exists exactly for these kinds of circumstances and are best-placed to come up with a workable solution – but she has seen Stamets and Tilly invent a lot of unlikely solutions to even unlikelier problems.

She remains in engineering while they dig through the data, but the theories that are soon tossed through the air at improbable speeds, discarded as quickly as they are created, quickly outpace her understanding of the problem. She doesn’t mind being relegated to occasionally answering questions about her experience of the situation. It leaves her time to consider some of the practical angles of their predicament.

Pike’s quarters are within reach of hers, so that wouldn’t be a problem, but they need a speedier way of communicating, and preferably one that doesn’t leave everyone in the vicinity wondering why the Captain and the Chief Science Officer are coordinating their schedule to what would appear to be an unhealthy degree. Besides, even something as straightforward as her morning run along the outer edge of the disk could potentially cause problems and they realistically can’t keep each other updated about every movement every minute of the day.

The thought makes her wince. Any ship-wide crisis and they’d be screwed, even if they planned for such an eventuality. It would be impossible to quickly react to problems in different parts of the ship if they had to constantly check in with each other.

Michael takes a few meditative breaths, talking herself back from the ledge of panic (she really, _really_ doesn’t want to be restricted from duty entirely, and knows Pike thinks the same). Workable problems first. Such as a secure and easy channel of communication. She takes a closer look at her medical bracelet, but it’s small, with limited computing capacity and no screen. Designed to monitor vitals, with an upload link to sickbay, and to alert the wearer to issues via coloured lights. They could use the communicators, of course, but they’re voice transmission only and that carries the same problems as using the intercom where other people listening in are concerned. She knows Pike doesn’t carry a PADD everywhere like some of the crew with more administrative roles, and neither does she for that matter, so that’s out too.

By the time alpha is nearly over, she hasn’t solved the problem and goes to talk to both Captain Pike and Doctor Pollard. Both agree with her opinion, though Pike makes a face when Michael points out that keeping this quiet is the best option if they want the ship to continue functioning normally. A little tinkering with an older model of medical bracelet, which does have a screen and attaches to the side of the one she’s already wearing, solves their problem, for all that the screen typepad is barely large enough to see properly.

Pike looks a little rueful as he has another, wider bracelet strapped to his left arm, an emotion Michael echoes. She’d prefer to be unencumbered as well, without the constant reminder of their situation, but that would be unsafe and impractical both.

No way through but to carry on.

*

It’s frighteningly easy to get into the habit of constantly updating Pike on her whereabouts. There’s a slight prickle of unease, yes, at sharing so much of her life with someone, even if it’s only through text messages, but as they keep doing it small conversations start to evolve from brief updates, until she finds herself actively looking forward to reading his messages.

They start to spend more time together. It’s only logical to align their schedules as much as possible, so when Pike alerts her

_CPike: Running laps on Deck 2 at 0530 before alpha tomorrow._

it makes sense to Michael to move her own training time half an hour earlier and join him, saving them both the worry of exceeding the range while training. That becomes a daily occurrence.

Michael also learns that Pike aims to visit every part of the ship every other day or so.

“Not an inspection,” he tells her, looking almost a little embarrassed. “Just checking in with all the sections that everything is running smoothly and that they have no concerns. If the captain is always on the bridge it can be hard to report minor things that nonetheless impact crew morale.”

Michael nods, her respect for him rising another notch.

“Would you be amenable to me accompanying you?” she asks, her mind on the practicalities, but when she looks at him his small smile strikes her as pleased.

“Of course, though you may find it boring.”

Michael does not find it boring. The one area where she has always fallen a little short of a Starfleet captain is in her interaction with other crewmembers and this is an area that Pike is a master at. He talks as easily to a seasoned commander as he does to a green cadet, finds common subjects to talk about with just about everyone and much of the time the other person doesn’t even realise that they’ve given him a far more accurate status update than Pike would’ve received if he’d outright asked. He’s approachable, knows when and how to use humour to defuse an awkward or tense situation, doesn’t give himself the airs that some captains do. It’s fascinating to watch, even as Michael understands, with some small stirrings of jealousy, that however hard she works on it for the rest of her life, she will never quite attain his ease with other people. It’s not, she thinks, in her character.

It takes a few days for her to realise that while Pike is clearly just carrying on a tradition he set when he came on board a month ago, he is also teaching her – deliberately so, if subtly. Michael doesn’t think he’s changing his interactions with the crew in any way, but he does draw her attention to specific things sometimes, with the flick of his eyes or a small gesture, and occasionally discusses aspects of the conversations afterwards.

“Shouldn’t you be doing this with Saru?” she asks him once.

“Ideally, yes, but Saru doesn’t have the time. As First Officer he’s usually on the bridge when I do this, though he has accompanied me a couple of times previously.”

He clearly notices that Michael still looks a little uncomfortable, for he continues, voice low and reassuring in exactly the way he’d talked to Ensign Carlotta earlier, who’d been worrying that she was disappointing her section chief, “He _is_ aware we’re doing this, Burnham. He also knows that his captaining style will one day be closer to mine than yours would be.”

It’s a tactful way of saying that Saru is better, or at least more practised, at interpersonal relationships than she is. Another realisation dawns, shocking enough that she stops mid-stride and draws his questioning gaze.

“You can’t possibly believe I’ll ever captain a ship.”

Pike crosses his arms, face serious. “Why not?”

“First convicted mutineer in Starfleet history? Started the Klingon War?” Michael lists, even as inside she’s reeling at the thought that he _disagrees_ with her. She’d always taken it as a fact that everyone knew she would be a commander for the rest of her life. “They restored my rank due to my contribution to ending the war, but that doesn’t erase what I did.”

Pike shakes his head. “We both know that you didn’t single-handedly start the war. The tensions were there before you were even born, and from everything I’ve heard and read the Klingon leader T’Kuvma was looking for an excuse to engage, to the point where he engineered your encounter on that beacon. Yes, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and became the spark that started hostilities, but it could just as easily have been someone else.” He smiles, wry. “As for the mutiny, show me one captain who hasn’t disobeyed direct orders in a tense situation at least once. The only reason you became a mutineer for yours is because it happened to be the start of the war.”

Michael can only shake her head. There’s some logic to what he’s saying and he certainly understands the inner workings of High Command better than she does, but she still doesn’t think the Admiralty would overlook her record. Not with the way they had vilified her actions while the war was ongoing.

Pike lets out a small sigh, something sad in his eyes as he says, “Think about it, Burnham.”

Michael doesn’t even know if she’d want to be a captain still, after everything that’s happened. But she promises him to do so anyway and wonders at herself later.

-

_CPike: Chess set in the rec room is free. Game?_

_MBurnham: I’ll be there in five minutes._

_-_

_MBurnham: Tilly is planning to drag me to the plant lab for alpha shift. She wants to me to identify similar plants to the one we encountered._

_CPike: Just don’t come back infected by a different set of pollen. That would be inconvenient._

_MBurnham: Tilly says the chances of that are about a million to one._

_CPike: If anyone could do it…_

_MBurnham: Very funny, sir._

-

_CPike: Stuck waiting for a call from the admiralty. What’s your favourite work of literature?_

_MBurnham: Alice in Wonderland._

_CPike: Huh. Wouldn’t have called that._

_MBurnham: Amanda would read it to me, as a child. Passages have stuck with me._

_CPike: Curiouser and curiouser._

_MBurnham: You know it?_

_CPike: My parents insisted on a varied education. To a twelve-year-old boy Alice in Wonderland is much more interesting than War and Peace._

That particular exchange takes place while she’s in her quarters and ends when Tilly eventually throws her hands into the air.

“Alright, what gives? You’ve been smiling like a besotted teenager every time you get a message for _days _now.”

Michael quickly schools her expression but the damage is already done. Tilly’s brows draw together in suspicion. “Wait, isn’t that your super secret communicate-only-with-the-captain arm band thing? I thought you were just using that to update each other on your locations. Please tell me you’re not grinning over him telling you he’s going to the mess hall.”

“I’m not grinning over him telling me he’s going to the mess hall,” Michael parrots, if only to hear Tilly’s outraged squawk.

“You can’t just leave it at that! What’s he saying? What are _you _saying? Tell me everything.”

Michael leans back against her pillow, deliberately stretching out her left arm, bracelets suddenly feeling heavy. “We’re just… talking.”

There’s no way Tilly missed that hesitation.

“You don’t just talk, Michael,” she says, shrewd. “As a rule. Not that I’m against it, you have the right to not engage in small talk, or to do so and shock the whole ship.”

Michael keeps staring at the ceiling, avoiding whatever look is on Tilly’s face right now. “It’s easy with him. Like it is with you.”

“Yeah, but I basically bullied you into liking me by refusing to go away.” Tilly’s voice softens. “Don’t you think it’s significant that you find him so easy to talk to?”

“Maybe,” Michael sighs, which they both know means _yes_.

“I know you don’t want to start anything while this spore thing is going on, and that’s a totally valid choice, but just… remember this once we’ve solved the problem?”

Michael doesn’t promise her that, but she does say, low and quiet and heartfelt, “Thanks, Tilly.”

-

_MBurnham: Heading to engineering. Stamets thinks he’s getting somewhere._

_CPike: Convey my gratitude. I would come, but Mr Stamets tends to think I just clutter up the place._

_MBurnham: He reacts like that to everyone._

_CPike: I’m not complaining. Wouldn’t even feel like a proper ship if there wasn’t at least one curmudgeon. Don’t tell anyone on the Enterprise I said that._

_MBurnham: My lips are sealed._

_-_

_CPike: Going to officers rec room. There’s a glass of Laso’s hooch calling my name._

_MBurnham: The rotgut brewed in an illegal still?_

_CPike: If anyone asks I know nothing about it. But if I did, I would say it’s almost as good as Chief Louvier’s._

_MBurnham: Just don’t forget the anti-hangover hypo._

_CPike: Watch it. One glass doesn’t get me drunk._

_MBurnham: Tell that to your lap time tomorrow._

-

_CPike: You may have been correct about the rotgut. I might have to smuggle some back to the Enterprise for molecular comparison._

_MBurnham: You should count yourself lucky that Vulcans don’t generally stoop to ‘I told you so’._

_CPike: … How did you even know? I can’t see you sneaking off to partake of some illegal alcohol._

_MBurnham: I have connections._

_CPike: Might those connections have ginger hair, by any chance?_

_MBurnham: My lips are sealed. At any rate, the last time I went to a party we ended up stuck in a time loop._

_CPike: Now you’re just messing with me._

_-_

_MBurnham: I just came across an article on the cultural practises of the Legape. They form life-long triad-bonds and believe that when one dies, the other two will follow to their version of an afterlife._

_CPike: Interesting. Why this particular species?_

_MBurnham: They place great value on the concept of loyalty._

_CPike: Sounds admirable to me._

_MBurnham: I know._

_-_

_CPike: Have you ever ridden a horse?_

_MBurnham: There has not been an occasion, no._

_CPike: You should change that next time you’re anywhere near Earth. Nothing quite like it._

_MBurnham: I’ll take your word for it._

_-_

_MBurnham: Stamets just accidentally ingested some spores and seems to be glowing._

_CPike: Anything I should be concerned about?_

_MBurnham: Pollard says no. Apparently at this point Stamets has had enough close contact with the spores that they recognise him as a ‘friendly organism’. And no, I don’t know what that means._

_CPike: And you wonder why I have to take things on faith._

_-_

_CPike: We’re scheduled to pass an asteroid shower port-side in 30._

_MBurnham: Meet you there?_

_CPike: I’ll be there._

_-_

Both the medical research team and ‘Team Spore Drive’ are continuing to search for solutions and have made some strides, but lack of time and the strangeness of the symptoms impede progress. After only a week Michael occasionally scares herself with how normal it all feels, though being on restricted duty continues to chafe.

Both she and Pike still have to report to sickbay every day to have the same tests run, again, and blood drawn, again. Usually it doesn’t take long, but when she walks in to find Stamets waiting with Doctor Pollard, her ears metaphorically prick.

“You have made progress?” she asks, just as Pike breezes in behind her and stops short at her words.

“Doctor?” he asks, tone almost sharp.

Michael only just manages to stop herself from laying a calming hand on his arm. She had never considered herself a person given to touching others, but whatever is now going on between her and Pike seems to be changing that, disconcertingly so. At least – after a lot of reflection – she’s 98% certain that these are indeed her own impulses, aided by the spores only in the sense that they put her in a position where she couldn’t avoid her feelings any longer.

Doctor Pollard, as ever, remains unruffled. “Pooling our theories with Mr Stamets and Ensign Tilly has yielded results, yes. We think we can interrupt the way the spores in your blood, Captain Pike, communicate with the spores in Commander Burnham’s.”

Michael doesn’t seem to be the only one to note the lack of enthusiasm in Pollard’s voice.

“And this is not good news?” Pike asks, expression carefully neutral.

“It is,” Stamets says, at the same time that Pollard states, “It could be.”

A line appears between Pike’s brows and he gestures towards the doctor. “Elaborate, please.”

“The science, as far as all involved can tell, is sound,” Pollard starts, ignoring Stamets’ mutter of ‘it _is_ sound’, “but we have no reliable way of testing the procedure before using it on you. That still poses a significant risk. We simply cannot be certain that the particles in your blood will react exactly as we think they will. Mr Stamets, perhaps due to his _personal history_, does not give these risks as much weight.”

Michael’s lips twitch. No, the man who injected himself with entirely experimental gene therapy to pilot a starship through a barely-proven dimension probably doesn’t see things quite the same way as a doctor.

“What’s the alternative?” Michael asks, gaze fixed firmly on Pollard, though her body seems to be quite aware of Pike’s bulk on her left, warmth prickling along her side. “We can’t remain like this indefinitely and there is no solution you could test to your satisfaction – you will always only have us as test subjects.”

“Beautiful choice of words there, Burnham,” Pike mutters, wry.

She shrugs. It’s true, after all.

“The continued blood tests have revealed that the particles _are _flushing out of your body over time,” Pollard says, gesturing towards one of the screens which now depicts a graph showing their bloods’ saturation levels. “It’s just happening very slowly. At this rate, my best approximation says it would take about two months to fully clear your systems, unless the process speeds up and there’s no reason to believe it will.”

Michael’s heart sinks. Two months? She exchanges a look with Pike, shaking her head minutely.

“Were we engaged in a less critical mission, we might consider it,” he says firmly, “but I trust Commander Stamets’ assessment if he says the science is sound. We need to be back on full duty as soon as possible – two months is too long, Doctor.”

Pollard looks at her, but Michael is already speaking. “I concur.”

Pollard sighs. “If you’re certain, then we might as well do it now. I was expecting that response, so we’re almost set up.”

Michael ends up on her biobed – and isn’t it a sad reflection on her life that she has a designated bed in sickbay – Pike to her right, watching as Stamets and Pollard set up.

“We isolated the wavelength that connects the particles,” Stamets explains. “A targeted burst of radiation should inhibit the particles from emitting further information on that wavelength, so to speak.”

Pike’s brow ticks upward. “Radiation?”

Stamets waves his hand dismissively. “Minute levels, not harmful. The particles are very sensitive.”

Pike subsides, though he still looks a little dubious. When he glances over at Michael, she shrugs. She trusts Stamets’ judgement. Pike relaxes.

“How did you get Tilly to stay away?” she asks, partly because she’s honestly curious and partly because she knows Stamets likes to talk while he’s fiddling with things.

That’s definitely a smirk on his face. “Saru is running a Command Training Program session right now. Mandatory.”

“Sneaky, Mr Stamets.”

It does tell her that Stamets isn’t quite as confident as he made out to be. He’s protective of Tilly, and they both know that Tilly would not take it well if a plan she had a hand in ended up not working out as intended – or, stars forbid, if either Michael or Captain Pike ended up hurt.

“Me first,” Pike says, mouth set in a thin line.

“Sir,” Michael starts to protest because he does this_ every time_, but he shakes his head.

“No, Burnham, this isn’t up for discussion. I’m going first.”

Michael subsides reluctantly and with a glare. She has become familiar with Pike in this mood, knows he won’t budge. And he claims _she _is the stubborn one. Pike counters her glare with a lop-sided smile and Michael almost curses. It’s unreasonably hard to stay mad at him.

She jumps when Stamets clears his throat, a vaguely pained look on his face as he observes the byplay. Pollard only looks amused, and Michael flushes.

“This will take less than a minute, Captain,” he promises and turns the small machine in his hand on. Nothing visible happens, and only a low whine attests that the machine works as Stamets runs it along Pike’s body, while Pollard keeps a weather eye on his vitals.

Pike doesn’t look entirely comfortable, but there’s no indication of pain in his expression, to Michael’s relief.

Then Stamets repeats the procedure with her. It doesn’t really feel like anything, just that low buzz humming in her ears as he moves the machine through the air.

“Scanning for activity,” Pollard says, ignoring the three pairs of eyes fixed on her.

Michael’s pulse thuds loudly in her ear during the small pause that follows.

“Activity detected,” Pollard announces quietly and the hopeful air in their part of sickbay deflates. “I can’t detect any difference in the readings.”

“Let me look at that,” Stamets demands, stalking over, but the look on his face as he scans through the data is enough to tell Michael that he, too, finds no difference.

“Back to the drawing board,” he mutters.

Pike sits up, swinging his legs to the floor. “Thank you both for the effort, Mr Stamets, Doctor Pollard.” His voice doesn’t betray the disappointment he must surely be feeling – that Michael is feeling. “We appreciate it.”

They nod, Stamets more reluctantly than Pollard, but before anyone can say anything else or suggest any more tests, the doors slide open and a wave of people enters, carrying two bloodied crewmen with them.

Pollard’s focus is immediately diverted. “What happened?” she snaps, starting towards the nearest injured, who Michael recognises as an engineering ensign called Cheng.

“Accident in engineering,” one of the uninjured says. “A part of a Jeffries tube came loose.”

“Someone get Doctor Alazara on shift,” Pollard directs, shepherding the group towards the other side of sickbay.

Michael and Pike exchange a look, then stand as one and head for the exit. Neither of them is keen on taking up medical attention with a real crisis going on, not when they feel essentially fine as long as they maintain their proximity.

Stamets doesn’t seem inclined to stop them, but he does call, “Look out for any unusual symptoms!” as they go.

They split at the turbolifts, Pike heading for the bridge to get an update from Saru and Michael towards her quarters to give an update to Tilly as soon as she returns from her training. Tilly’s mind is probably already in overdrive, imagining all kinds of horror scenarios.

Checking the proximity light on her medical bracelet whenever she changes location has become second nature, which is why she is absolutely certain that the light is green when her heart suddenly stutters, muscles screaming in a horribly familiar way, just outside her room. Either her memory had glossed over the experience, or this time the intensity of the pull is even stronger because Michael barely manages a step before she loses consciousness.

*

Awareness filters slowly through closed eyelids, via suspiciously bright lights and a familiar smell in her nostrils. Sickbay, again.

Michael opens her eyes, squints around the mostly empty room. Whatever engineering disaster had distracted Doctor Pollard earlier seems to have run its course, for the room is empty aside from Pike in the bed next to her. He’s sitting up with a PADD, frowning at whatever he’s reading, and his hair is a little less perfect than usual. Michael only gets a moment to study him before he notices the regard and looks up, smiles to find her awake.

“Michael. Welcome back to the land of the conscious.”

“What happened?” she asks, voice scratching through her throat until she swallows several times.

“Well, you collapsed outside your rooms. It took the medical team a little bit longer to get to you, which is why you stayed under longer.” There’s something deeply chagrined in his expression. “I, on the other hand, was somewhere far more accessible.”

Michael consults what she can remember before her collapse, and almost groans in sympathy. “You’d reached the bridge already.”

Pike sighs. “Yes, and no doubt scared the bejeezus out of the bridge crew. I’m afraid keeping our situation quiet has ceased to be a viable option.”

Michael shrugs, surprised to find even such a little gesture pulling at sore muscles. “It was going to happen sooner or later, however much I wish it wouldn’t.”

Pike’s gaze prickles over her skin, piercing in a way he doesn’t usually let show quite so overtly. “You were very clear about your wish for privacy when this all began.”

Michael doesn’t quite wince, but inclines her head in acknowledgement of the point. She _had_ been quite insistent – had, in fact, unilaterally assumed that they would only tell those few who truly needed to know and not given Pike’s opinion much of a look-in. He’d gone along with it, leaving her choice uncontested, but she really should have consulted him first, and not only because he’s her Captain.

“I may have been a bit… single-minded. Tilly reminded me that this is a starship and thus nothing stays secret for too long.”

Pike’s half-smile makes an appearance, highlighting his dimples. Michael wonders when she started looking forward to seeing it.

“Truer words,” he murmurs.

Her brain must be slower to wake up than the rest of her, for it only registers now what’s wrong with this entire scenario. “Why did we have another episode? The light was green, we didn’t exceed the allowed distance.”

“As far as they can tell,” Pike says quietly, gaze now fixed on the bulkhead opposite, “the attempt to cure us actually did the opposite and curtailed our radius further. We were waiting on you to wake to discover by how much.” His posture slumps slightly, letting her _see_ his weariness. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

She wonders at his repeated use of her first name, but then he has done so before in stressful situations.

“It’s not your fault,” she returns, and leaves off the _sir _or _captain. _Chris feels like a step too far, unless invited by him, but if he’s making himself vulnerable by laying aside the formality of rank, then she should at least make an effort to meet him.

“No,” he agrees, “but I can still be sorry that you’re now forced off duty and will have your freedom of movement curtailed even worse.”

Michael raises a brow. “It goes both ways. I can’t imagine you’re thrilled to be on stand-down and tethered to me.”

“Well, how did you put it earlier? Better you than anyone else?” Pike smiles, though there’s still something a little pinched around his eyes. “Chess games, someone to argue with me in case I need humbling, who reads my rambling text messages without complaint, and is generally pleasant company – some might say you’re the perfect person to get stuck with.”

Pleasure slides through her like a living thing, preening dangerously. She had known, through observation, that he enjoys her company, but to hear it said is… different.

Sarek would’ve been disappointed by the way she can’t even begin to help her answering smile. “When I first stated such, I was thinking in more practical terms, but I find that I – agree.”

Pike’s eyes warm, stress lines disappearing, but before he can do more than open his mouth Doctor Pollard strides into the room.

“Ah good, you’re awake. How do you feel, Commander?”

“Sore,” Michael admits, “but otherwise fine.”

Pollard nods. “That’s to be expected. You had what amounts to a serious seizure. No permanent damage was done, however – once we’ve determined your new radius you can both go.” She hesitates. “Given the locations where you both collapsed, it may be that you need to occupy the same set of quarters for the next while, to be on the safe side.”

Michael keeps her face impassive through sheer force of will even as shivers trace down her spine. Pike’s face is studiously blank.

Pollard looks between the two of them and shakes her head, but thankfully doesn’t offer any commentary. She’s all business as they test out their new range and no control in the galaxy can stop Michael from blanching a little when Pike barely makes it down the corridor before the symptoms start.

100 meters. Blessed Vulcan, _100 meters_. So much for living a life approaching normal.

*

By the time they escape sickbay and have made their way to Pike’s quarters in subdued silence, someone has already been by and set up a camp bed for Michael in his living room. While Michael is just quietly grateful that, as the captain, Pike even has two-room quarters, Pike is looking at the relatively flimsy setup with distaste.

“If I tell you to take the bed,” he says, hands folded behind his back, “how long are we going to spend arguing about it?”

Michael raises a brow. “Until you give in and allow me to not kick you out of your own bed.”

Pike looks unimpressed, as if even the notion of making a guest sleep on the floor pains him.

“I don’t mind, sir,” Michael tells him gently. “I’ve slept on far worse things than a camp bed.”

That doesn’t seem to be the right tack to take, for it only makes Pike’s face do something complicated she can’t quite interpret. She crosses her arms in front of chest, consciously widening and settling her stance. “Would it help if I pointed out that I’m younger than you are and thus more suited to not sleeping in a bed?”

That, at least, gets a wry smile from him. “Not particularly, no.”

That leaves a last gambit. “How about I threaten to comm your doctor on the _Enterprise_, telling him that you’ve chosen to sleep on the floor when other options were available?”

Pike stares at her for a moment, then shakes his head, hands in the air in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, you can be the one to be uncomfortable, just don’t involve Doctor Boyce. Or tell my mother that I allowed a guest to sleep on the floor – she’d never forgive me.”

Michael’s smile is smug, she knows, but he doesn’t call her on it, just groans quietly to himself and goes off to find blankets and a pillow for her.

With impeccable timing, before things can devolve into awkwardness, the door chime rings.

“Enter,” Pike calls, Michael remembering a little too late that she’s now programmed into the controls just as he is.

Tilly comes in, doing a very credible impression of a ball of energy only just hanging onto composure.

Pike takes that in and clears his throat. “I’ll just,” he gestures towards his bedroom, “leave you two to catch up.”

And he disappears into the other room, granting as much privacy as he can under the circumstances.

As soon as the door slides shut behind him, Tilly bounces over to Michael on the couch. “Isn’t he chivalrous?”

Michael rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree. After all she basically had to bully him into not giving up his bed for her.

“It’s all over the ship already, isn’t it.”

Tilly’s gaze goes sympathetic. “That you and the Captain have been spore-bonded and are sharing quarters for the foreseeable future? Yeah. But it’s not like people hadn’t already noticed you spending more time together recently.”

Michael frowns. “What were people thinking before they heard the explanation?”

“Oh, everyone thought you were dating,” Tilly tells her cheerfully. “No big deal. But Reno is going to have to cough up the money she won.”

Michael doesn’t even try to disguise her horror. “You _bet_ on me and the Captain?”

Which isn’t, by far, the only thing she has an issue with in this, because people speculating on her love life will never not be uncomfortable, and her mind is still carefully skirting around the fact that the majority of the crew apparently found the idea of her and Pike dating plausible enough to go with it – and no one had lodged a complaint either.

“On when the Captain would give in to someone’s charms and get with one of the crew,” Tilly corrects, as if that’s any better. “I mean, our crew is awesome – like he could resist that. Reno got the timing right, she was down for a week ago. Though if someone had run a bet on _who_ it would be, I’d have made a lot of money. You went under most people’s radars.”

“For good reason!”

“Not really,” Tilly says matter-of-factly. “You pretend you’re all Vulcan uptight, but those of us who actually spend any time with you know better. And you _have_ been watching him a lot, even before this whole thing.”

Michael casts a nervous glance towards the bedroom door. Still firmly closed, and Pike isn’t the type of person to listen in on other people’s private conversations anyway. Still. “Can we not discuss this right now?”

When he’s all of twenty feet away, she doesn’t say, but Tilly hardly needs to be psychic to catch her meaning.

“Relax, the walls are as soundproof as they come, you’d have to be screaming for him to hear you. The _question_ is, what are you going to do now that you’re practically joined at the hip with your crush?”

Michael opens her mouth to debate the applicability of the term ‘crush’ and then just sort of deflates. “I don’t know,” she mutters. “It’s bad enough when I just see him on the bridge. I keep _looking _at him. It’s distracting.”

Tilly shakes her head so hard her curls bounce like a halo. “Michael, you’ve basically been on a date with that man _every_ day of the last week.”

“That was just logical,” Michael defends. “We had to coordinate our schedules anyway. It’s just, I don’t want to start anything when neither of us are in a good position to say no.”

Tilly sighs a little, but nods. “And that’s still a valid choice. I’m just saying that you might not be able to stick to it when you’re spending every hour of the day with him, and if you don’t, you really shouldn’t take that as a reason to beat yourself up. You tend to see that kind of thing as a personal failure, you know.”

“Anyone slip you a truth serum this morning?” Michael asks sourly and has to consciously still her fingers before she accidentally unravels Pike’s nice couch blanket. His taste runs towards warm earth colours, style understated enough that Michael can appreciate the décor. Growing up on Vulcan curtailed any interest in garishness – she never quite lost that taste for simple elegance.

“Nope, I come like this naturally.” Tilly pats her knee, then stands. “I’ll leave you to it, just let me know if you need more stuff from our quarters or you need a break from Mr Perfect.”

Michael waves her out. “Thanks, Tilly.”

As soon as the door has shut behind her friend, she slumps back into the cushions. How is she going to get through this? It would be so easy to lose their comfortable dynamic because she slipped up, in close quarters like this.

It all comes back to the one question that’s been haunting her: if he knew, what would he do?

*

Pike doesn’t reappear from his bedroom until it’s nearly time for the evening meal and Michael has buried her head in one of the many journal articles she missed as they were published because she’s generally too busy. This one details a first contact situation with a reptilian species and the resulting communication problems.

Pike cocks his head, eyes taking her in. There’re things they need to talk about, but after a moment of silence they mutually decide to defer that conversation.

“Dinner in the mess hall?” Pike asks, tone carefully neutral. Leaving it to her to decide.

However strong the urge to just hide in his quarters until the worst has blown over, Michael knows that’s not really feasible. Not to mention she’d effectively be confining Pike to his quarters, as well. While Michael would be entirely fine not interacting with anyone for a few days, Pike seems like a more social creature than that.

So she pushes off the sofa, which really is quite comfortable, and squares her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

There’s a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he takes in her stance. “It’s not a military campaign, Burnham.”

“Just wait until we actually get there,” she mutters, moving towards the door. “It’ll feel like enemy action then.”

He laughs at that, low and warm, the sound carrying Michael down the corridor before she can second-guess her choice.

It’s not unexpected, the sudden hush in the mess hall, but it still makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, anxiety prickling along her skin like a second skin.

Michael sets her jaw, stares straight ahead and moves toward where Tilly is sitting with Airiam and Owo. Pike looks as unruffled as ever, out of the corner of her eye, as he detaches from her side and heads towards Saru. Michael stamps down on the sudden feeling of loss at the absence of his presence. That was the whole point, after all, for them to spend some time with other people, apart from each other, before their company becomes wearying. But it hadn’t yet.

She’s almost to the table when she realises she should actually get some food first. She sits down anyway because at this point she just wants people to stop staring, and gratefully takes the glass of water Tilly pushes towards her.

Tilly takes one look at the expression on Michael’s face and jumps right back into whatever they’d been talking of before, bless her heart.

“It’s clearly my turn to go on an away mission.” She pokes her fork first at Owo, then Michael. “You both went to Terralysium, Saru and Tyler went to Pava with you, Michael, and Stamets gets to metaphorically tramp all over the mycelial network.”

“None of those away missions turned out particularly well,” Michael points out, mind flashing to Pike on the ground with a phaser burn caving in his chest. Just the memory is enough to stir nausea into her next few breaths.

“Neither have I had the opportunity for an away mission since coming to the _Discovery_,” Airiam adds.

Tilly waves that away. “But you’ve been on one before. You told me about that time with the moon and the rodents.”

Michael gets the distinct impression that if she physically still could, Airiam would be blushing.

“And as for the missions turning out badly, no offense, Michael, but you’re like a super-strength trouble magnet.” Tilly shakes her head. “Your bad luck is _legendary _and doesn’t apply to the rest of us.”

Michael doesn’t find that logic very convincing, given the number of catastrophes that happened to the _Discovery_ as a whole rather than to her specifically, but is derailed when Saru appears next to her. He gently sets a tray with a vegetable burrito in front of her.

“The Captain bids me remind you that eating is a necessary human endeavour,” Saru says, voice low enough only their table will hear, but still pointed. There’s an undercurrent of amusement there, too. She sneaks a glance at Pike, who has somehow managed to convince Stamets to actually sit down and eat his food at a measured pace rather than rushing off to the lab with it.

“I doubt he phrased it quite like that, Saru,” she says dryly, “but thank you for the food.”

Saru inclines his head. “The thought behind it was the same. Enjoy your dinner.”

Michael looks after him as he leaves, feeling guilt stir in her gut. Saru is probably heading to the bridge, pulling double shifts because the Captain and another senior officer are out of commission.

“_Discovery _to Michael,” Tilly is saying when she refocuses, one pale hand waving in front of her face.

Michael smiles at her. “My apologies, I was distracted. Are you covering bridge shifts adequately?”

“Saru moved some shifts around,” Owo tells her, looking cheerful enough about it. “We’re fine, Michael.” She hesitates. “Do you know how long you and the Captain will be out?”

“No,” Michael sighs, not bothering to hide her grimace at the uncertainty. “The medical team and Stamets are still working on a cure.”

“About that,” Tilly starts, guilt clear in her face and voice, “I’m sorry our first attempt was so off. We really thought it would work, but it turns out the spores just switch wavelength when the one they were using is inhibited. Pretty amazing, actually, we might be able to apply that to our comm tech if we can figure out how they do it, but also, um, amazingly non-practical for you right now.”

Michael shrugs, projecting a little more nonchalance than she feels. She doesn’t want Tilly to feel bad for a mistake no one could’ve anticipated and she’s also quite aware of Owo and Airiam listening curiously. “At least you figured out what went wrong. More data for next time.”

Tilly nods. “Hell yeah, we’re not giving up. Team Spore Drive will keep at it until those spores know who the real boss is!” She halts, possibly realising the various shades of incredulous directed at her from her table mates. “It’s Stamets, Stamets is the real boss. The boss of all spores.”

“Tilly,” Michael says slowly, “how many espressos have you had today?”

Tilly scrunches up her nose, avoiding Michael’s gaze. “It _might_ have been five. Or maybe six, I lost count. You’re far too much of my impulse control, Michael.”

This time Michael’s smile is entirely genuine, and the rest of dinner passes by in a discussion about more or less harmless substance dependencies. By the time Pike rises and Michael, who has kept an eye on him waiting for any signal he was getting ready to leave, joins him, their exit doesn’t do more than turn a few speculative heads.

“Progress,” Pike murmurs once they’re out in the hallway, so clearly mirroring her own thoughts she has to laugh.

He raises a brow at her, inquisitive and warm, and she admits, “I was thinking much the same. Although it couldn’t have gotten much worse than the complete silence when we walked in.”

Pike shrugs. “They’ll get over it, eventually. It just takes a little longer when it’s the captain and the notorious chief science officer.”

“_Notorious_?”

He grins at her, almost boyish. “In all the best ways, Burnham.”

Michael shakes her head, doesn’t know what to do with that at all. But Pike doesn’t say anything else on the walk back to his – their? – quarters.

The same warm lighting greets their entrance that she had found soothing earlier in the afternoon, and Michael can feel her muscles relaxing, out of the public eye, in these comfortable surroundings.

It’s only when she gives a thought to relieving the pressure on her bladder that she realises another problem: the bathroom goes off from Pike’s bedroom and isn’t accessible from the front room. Aside from the invasion of privacy – she hadn’t intended to go into his bedroom at all – the thought of having to tiptoe past him sleeping in the bed to reach the toilet during the night is not a pleasant one. Well, aspects of it are enticing (too enticing, even – she can’t say she isn’t curious what Pike would look like entirely relaxed in sleep when he’s usually so composed), but she rather wouldn’t steal his rest and most seasoned Starfleet officers she knows don’t tend to sleep through people walking through their private space at night.

Michael realises she has been standing still in the middle of the front room for a bit too long when Pike says, gently, as if afraid to disturb her, “Michael?”

She jolts back into the present. “Bathroom,” she says, trusting him to pick up on the rest.

“Ah.” There’s that half smile again. “Through the bedroom, on the left. I won’t mind if you need to go during the night, the door’s never locked.”

Michael snorts a little, meeting his gaze to convey her appreciation. “This would’ve been a lot harder with someone slower on the uptake.”

Pike grins. “Remind me to never introduce you to Number One. She’d disabuse you of the notion that I’m quick on the uptake in two seconds flat.”

And this too, she thinks, is him accommodating her, defusing her gratitude before it can become too heavy, mean too much, when he seems to think his good behaviour is a given in a situation as strange as this.

“I prefer the evidence of my own experience,” Michael tells him, just a little pointed because he skates close to taking humility too far sometimes, and brushes past him on the way to the bathroom. Better not to leave him time to reply if she wants to win this particular non-argument.

Pike’s bedroom, it turns out, is entirely in keeping with his character. Not sparse, but ordered, a few knickknacks of sentimental value strewn around, a couple of rare paper books on his nightstand, the same warm colour scheme that saturates the rest of his quarters. She makes it a point not to linger. She can’t not look, but she’ll do him the courtesy of not outright snooping, no matter what her inner Tilly is urging her to do.

When she re-enters the front room, Pike has made himself comfortable on the couch, PADD in hand and a glass of something amber on the low table in front of him. It seems almost a shame to disturb him, but he’s already looking up and smiling warmly, setting his PADD aside.

“Very fancy,” Michael comments and then has to hold back a wince. That’s inane even for her usual standard of small talk. “The bathroom.”

Pike grins. “It’s one of the quickest ways to date a starship – checking whether the Captain’s quarters have an en-suite bathroom and what it looks like. Not, perhaps, the easiest though, if you don’t happen to _be _the captain.”

“Lucky me,” Michael says, settling down on the other side of the sofa somewhat stiffly. She’d only just now realised how relaxed she’d already become here, like she almost always does in his presence, and has to consciously remind herself that right now relaxing might be a mistake she can’t undo again later.

Pike no doubt notices her posture – she isn’t even quite leaning back into the cushions – but keeps any opinions he may have to himself.

“Do you want something to drink before we tackle” – he waves his hand a little aimlessly – “this?”

Michael decides that having something to hold onto might not be a bad idea. “Some tea would be pleasant.”

She almost misses the minute hesitation before he rises, heading for a bureau rather than the replicator. “Do you drink the same stuff as Spock?”

“You stock Vulcan Spice Tea in your quarters?” She doesn’t know why the notion is so startling, that Pike and Spock spend enough time off-shift together to warrant such a thing.

Pike raises his voice a little over the clinking of the cup as he replicates a cup of hot water. “Spock claims the replicators never get it to taste quite right and brought some after the first time he was subjected to the results.”

There’s a wealth of meaning behind the innocuous words. Not only did Spock decide leaving a stash of tea with Pike was a worthwhile thing to do, it also speaks of an ease with each other that Michael doesn’t remember coming naturally to Spock. She wonders who took the first step in that relationship and then shakes her head at herself. Of course it would’ve been Pike.

A fragrantly steaming cup appears in her vision, accompanied by Pike’s amused smile. “Tea for your thoughts?”

Michael smiles her gratitude in return, takes the cup and lets its warmth seep into her skin. “Isn’t it an isik usually?”

“What’s an isik?”

Michael snorts lightly. “I actually don’t know. Something Amanda used to say.”

“In that case, tea will have to do,” Pike says, eyes twinkling.

Michael takes a sip, the spicy flavour exploding on her tongue with a wealth of memory. “I was just thinking about Spock. You seem to know him well.”

Pike tilts his head, takes a sip of his own unspecified but probably highly alcoholic drink. “I don’t know if anyone knows Spock well, but we do get along, yes. Or perhaps he simply enjoys having someone to beat at chess.”

“He would not have far to look for that,” Michael points out.

Pike shrugs, a little helplessly. “Spock is Spock. If you want to know why he spends time with me, you’ll have to ask him.”

It’s always a bit like getting doused in cold water, these reminders of her estrangement with Spock. Asking him? _That_ is unlikely to happen in this century.

Pike’s keen eyes notice whatever spasm of emotion has just passed her face and he moves on smoothly. “The more relevant question right now is what _we_ are going to do, given the amount of time we’ll be spending in each other’s company. As there’s so little choice in the matter, we might benefit from a few, let’s say, ground rules.”

Michael nods. It’s logical to prepare to what degree they can and she falls back into the officer mindset easily. “What did you have in mind, sir?”

“For one thing,” Pike says, something like chagrin in his expression, “while we’re alone you could call me Chris. I would rather ranks not come into this, as much as possible.” He smiles. “Besides, hearing ‘sir’ or ‘captain’ all the time, even in my off hours, would get old damn fast.”

There’s a real plea buried under his words, Michael thinks, recalling a previous comment he had made in her presence about the loneliness of command. If this is how she can help, she’ll gladly oblige. “I’ll do my best… Chris.”

She sounds the name on her tongue, like a word she has never said before, lightly aspirated voiceless velar stop gliding into the postalveolar approximant, the short vowel, the alveolar fricative. The components come easy – the whole does not.

Pike – _Chris_ – only smiles at her warmly, doesn’t comment on her unease and moment of abstraction, even though to him it must seem unwarranted.

Finally, Michael speaks again. “Are we expecting the duration of this to be long enough that developing a routine would be beneficial?”

“In the absence of solid information, I think we have to,” Chris says, effortlessly serious again. He’s rolling his glass between his palms, a smoothly repetitive motion Michael has trouble looking away from. “There’s some work I can still do, even off duty, and I’m assuming the same thing goes for you. And… perhaps it would help to have scheduled time alone, or with other friends, without one of us hovering over the other’s shoulder.”

Michael nods and decides honesty is by far the most logical course at this point. “It hasn’t been a problem so far, but better to avoid the issue entirely.”  


“That’s entirely due to your unprecedented ability to roll with the punches, Michael,” Chris points out, shaking his head. “Do you want to work out a schedule now, or take some time to think on it and deal with it tomorrow?”

Michael has never enjoyed procrastinating and from everything she knows about Chris she expects he prefers to get work done as soon as possible too, so they spend the next hour hammering out something resembling a duty schedule, just with a lot more downtime than she’s used to seeing. Chris will still do his ship-wide inspections, Michael only too happy to tag along, and deal with paperwork for a designated amount of time each day (although this point gets added to the soundtrack of a lot of groaning). Michael plans to spend time in engineering, partly to make herself available to Stamets and Tilly and partly because they can always use an extra pair of idle hands around there, and is going to make herself an itemised list of research to catch up on while Chris is busy with the dreaded paperwork. An hour is set aside for physical exercise and there’ll be at least one communal meal a day. The evening is designated quiet time in Chris’ quarters, dependent on their mood, and Michael is already planning to get her chess set transferred from her quarters.

Which leaves a couple of hours to spend in different places, outside of each other’s company. Different places, in this case, meaning more or less adjacent rooms, since neither of them can go farther than a small ways down the hallway without tempting symptoms neither wants to invite.

On paper, at least, they’ll make it through this.

Unfortunately, on paper Michael doesn’t have to deal with getting an eyeful of half-clad Chris coming out of the shower just as she’s heading for the toilet, thinking he’s in bed still. On paper, Michael doesn’t see Chris sleep-mussed, hair tousled as he goes rooting around for coffee in the morning. On paper, she’s not suddenly fighting the constant urge to _touch_ him.

Nowhere in the paper does it mention the sheer vulnerability that accompanies living with someone. Michael, who has only ever shared her quarters with Tilly (which feels entirely different for a lot of reasons), is starting to understand why couples make such a big deal of moving in with each other. Not that she and the captain are a couple. It’s just an analogy, if one that’s slowly taking over her brain. Chris isn’t exactly helping that issue by continuing to be open and warm around her – which he had been before, but now it’s literally _all the time_ – quick to give her space when she needs it but never seeming like he minds or resents her company. And then there’s seeing him in casual clothing, which is a whole different can of stardust.

It makes her _want _things (him), which in turn entangles her rational ability to assess what he might be feeling. Some moments she things he, too, wants more, when his body language is so open around her, or she finds a slight flush on his cheeks when he catches sight of her in her workout tank-top, his gaze perhaps lingering a little longer than normal. On the other hand, Chris _is _open by nature, sometimes bafflingly so (his first introduction on the bridge comes to mind) or at least works hard to appear that way. He’s friendly and kind, and has always been both towards Michael. While it seems a little unlikely that anyone could be quite that convincingly personable _all_ the time, if anyone could do it it would be him.

Besides, Michael is having a hard time understanding why he would choose her of all people to get involved with. She knows she’s good-looking enough, but she also comes with a whole load of baggage, some Vulcan-bred, some born of her mutiny and the war (and Ash, her mind whispers). Even if he does find her attractive without further feelings attached, the thought of engaging in meaningless physical release with him and nothing more is enough to plant a sick feeling in her stomach. He doesn’t strike her as the type, but you never know. Michael has never understood casual sex, casual intimacy even, and has no desire to pursue it with anyone. Tilly might call that kind of dating ‘fun’, but from what Michael can tell it’s little more than sleeping with the same person for a while until the novelty wears off and a new partner is sought. Apparently that’s the enlightened way to go about sex in this day and age, but to her it just feels… empty.

Chris isn’t empty, and in his presence Michael, too, feels full. And she wouldn’t jeopardise that for anything.

For a moment she lets herself imagine it – Chris wanting a relationship with her, as invested as she already is, if only in her fantasies. But even if that were so, Chris is clearly still holding back, hasn’t initiated a conversation about hypothetical feelings, although it’s not his usual style to beat around the bush on anything. There could be reasons for that; perhaps he has decided, much like Michael had originally, that the risks aren’t worth it and they shouldn’t pursue a relationship. Maybe he has much the same misgivings about their current situation and isn’t going to start anything while they’re literally bound together. Or, he’s waiting on her, for some sign of her feelings, or out of the belief that as the higher-ranking of them, he shouldn’t be the one to initiate anything beyond friendship.

All of the options are depressingly logical.

The thought brings her up short. When did she go from not wanting her feelings to be exposed, from judging avoiding a relationship with Chris to be the most logical option, to feeling depressed about their current stalemate because she wants _more_? She follows that string, wading through thoughts and motivations – happiness and longing warring with responsibility, the sense of risk – until she arrives at the one conclusion that fits all questions: it had been easier to deny herself when she hadn’t known even a fraction of what she was missing.

All of the options are depressingly logical – but unless Michael can figure out if Chris even _has_ feelings for her, they are also entirely irrelevant.

*

The next morning, Michael has barely emerged from the bathroom with her uniform in place, Chris still clutching a cup of coffee like a lifeline, when the door chime announces a visitor.

“Open,” Chris calls, patting a little at his hair, which it turns out doesn’t fall that perfectly without some help in front of a mirror, which he hadn’t gotten around to yet.

Michael’s eyebrows rise and her back straightens reflexively when Admiral Cornwell is the one to walk in. She darts a glance at Chris, who doesn’t look very surprised.

“Admiral,” he says, voice cool and professional, despite his slightly rumpled appearance. “I wasn’t made aware you’d be visiting.”

Cornwell shrugs. “You know the protocol, Chris. Your CMO has been keeping command updated on your condition and the last report made for… interesting reading.”

Her eyes move to Michael, pointedly.

Michael is almost certain that Chris is mentally cursing paperwork to Q’onos and back, but the only sign of his irritation is a slight narrowing of his eyes. She wonders what he’s upset about, but that question at least is cleared up with his next words.

“You could still have called ahead. This kind of ambush isn’t your style, Kat.”

“No,” Cornwell agrees, plucking her admiral’s badge from her uniform and putting it on the sideboard with Chris’ small succulent collection. Michael frowns. She’s making a point with it, obviously, but Michael isn’t entirely certain what that point is supposed to be. “Officially, Starfleet Command is nothing more than a little worried that you’re out of commission at such a critical time, but with the latest development in your symptoms, the protocol kicked in. They sent me because I know you well enough to tell when you’re acting out of character.”

“Fair enough,” Chris sighs, shoulders slumping a little. “It’d be nice if one of these days you’d drop by just on a social visit.”

Cornwell’s mouth tightens, something unspoken passing between them before she nods. “Agreed. But we _are _getting there, Chris. Rebuilding doesn’t happen in a day.”

Chris waves her towards the chairs, moving to sit down on the sofa himself. Michael, unsure what’s expected of her, follows his lead and perches on her end of the sofa, plenty of space between them.

“So which part of Doctor Pollard’s report raised flags?”

Cornwell’s piercing eyes travel from him to Michael and back again, and Michael has to squash the urge to shift uncomfortably.

“Pollard noted that neither of you seemed particularly upset about the decreased range,” Cornwell says, voice going a little flat, careful. “In a circumstance like that, with two people who haven’t known each other for very long, we would expect some tension at the very least.”

“It would be illogical to rail against something we have no control over,” Michael points out, drawing both their eyes. “I don’t see how _lack_ of tension would be cause for worry.”

Chris nods, shooting a glance in Michael’s direction that seems almost apologetic. “It’s not the most comfortable situation, but we’re making it work. Doctor Pollard and Mr Stamets are working on a cure and I have every confidence that they will succeed before too long.”

Cornwell smiles, acknowledging his point. “No one’s questioning your crew’s commitment, or their ability to pull miraculous scientific solutions out of their collective brains. Not after what the _Discovery _has already accomplished.” She hesitates, then sighs. “I _do_ have to verify that everything is fine with both of you independently. Protocol.”

That makes sense. If there really were a problem, it would be easier to explain it in confidence, without the potential instigator listening in.

Michael rises, picking up her PADD. “I’ll leave you to it. I have some more reading to do anyway.”

Chris flashes her a brief, distracted smile, but neither he nor Cornwell say anything else until Michael has made her escape into the bedroom, door sliding shut behind her.

It’s still strange to be in his bedroom. It’s just a room, yes, but there’s some symbolism attached to someone’s most private sanctum. Unwilling to make herself too at home, she perches on the edge of the mattress, pulling up the next journal article on her list on her PADD. Part of her is intensely curious about the discussion going on just a few meters away, but she isn’t overly worried. They’re not doing anything wrong, after all, just coping with the hand they’ve been dealt. And if she has some thoughts that might be deemed improper, well, no one but her knows about them.Besides, she has always had the clear impression that Cornwell and Chris are friends, or at least friendly, and “Kat” had come up in a couple of the stories he’d told her of his academy days while they were quarantined.

Either way, Tilly was very much correct – these walls are exceedingly soundproof.

Michael has only read a few paragraphs when a knock on the door jolts her out of her concentrated state. Her eyebrow hitches upward – Chris knocking at his own bedroom door has something ironic to it – and she gets up to hit the door release switch.

The briefest of assessments tightens her lips. Chris’ face is studiously blank, but she can see hints of some sort of underlying strain. She wonders what caused it.

“Switch,” he says, with a small smile that looks by no means insincere but still lacks some of the warmth she has already gotten used to, hand waving her out of the room.

“Admiral,” she greets neutrally, taking in Cornwell’s posture on the chair. Feet braced, leaning forward onto her arms. She doesn’t like this conversation that protocol forces on them both.

“Commander Burnham.” Cornwell smiles briefly. “It’s good to see you outside an immediate crisis.”

Michael nods, the sheer dryness suffusing Cornwell’s voice reminding her that she likes the other woman, her steel, her convictions – even if they don’t always align entirely with Michael’s.

“Have a seat.” Cornwell’s piercing eyes follow Michael as she steps over to the couch, automatically settling on her side. “Chris tells me you’re not any more interested in small talk than he is, so I’ll get right to it. Is there anything about the current situation I should be worried about?”

Michael understands Cornwell is mandated to ask, but just the thought of Chris doing anything inappropriate is ludicrous enough that she has to take a moment to work through it. Michael meets Cornwell’s gaze squarely. “No, Admiral. And you know him better than to even ask.”

Their eyes lock, for a heartbeat, two, then Cornwell nods, features softening. “I do, but I still had to. The protocol is quite clear.”

“Captain Pike’s well-known character aside,” Michael says, not hiding a certain sharpness to that because while Chris may not be happy about having to have this conversation with a friend, she knows he understands duty well enough never to hold it against her, “I _would_ have spoken up if anything untoward were happening.”

“Peace, Commander, I do believe that. It’s why we only initiated the protocol now, rather than when you were first quarantined.” Cornwell sighs. “With the current mission and the way you ended the war, you know how many pressures there are on the _Discovery_.”

Michael raises a brow. “I suspect if anyone is more aware of this than I, it’s Captain Pike, Admiral.”

For some reason that makes Cornwell smile in what Michael judges to be honest amusement. “Has he figured out why his reports are under such scrutiny yet?”

Michael cocks her head, a little startled. “I would’ve thought the sensitivity of our current mission would be enough of a reason. And the _Enterprise _was out of easy communication range for the better part of five years.”

Cornwell shakes her head, something fond peeking through her expression for a moment. “Of course he wouldn’t see it. That man is going to be honestly surprised the day we hand him a promotion.”

That is, objectively speaking, true, but Michael can’t help the sudden stab of worry. Chris makes a good captain, and he’s _their_ captain. She doesn’t want to give him up to the admiralty.

“No one’s kicking him upstairs yet,” Cornwell says, some amusement still lurking around her mouth. “But I figured you could stand to know it’s a possibility, eventually.”

That startles her. There’s no reason why Michael should need to know this any more than any other senior crewmember on board. Except if… Her confusion must’ve shown, for Cornwell shakes her head, a brief smile flashing as she picks up her badge and stands.

“I have places to be. Tell Chris to comm me some time.”

She strides out, as purposeful as she had come, and Michael sinks back into the couch. Now, that had been an interesting visit. Michael fights against a flush at the suggestiveness of Cornwell’s last comment – she doesn’t need any more reason to hope. She shakes it off, for the moment. Right now is not the time.

When she goes to free Chris from the bedroom, he’s still looking unhappy, lines on his face for once matching his age.

Michael studies the stiffness in his bearing and decides to ask one of the easier questions currently crowding her tongue.

“What protocol was the Admiral talking about?”

Some of the stiffness in his bearing fades, as if he’d been bracing himself for her to ask, or even accuse him of, something entirely different.

“No reason you would’ve come across it,” Chris says, wry. “It’s not actually invoked very often – forced bonding between crew members isn’t a common occurrence, whatever Academy gossip may imply. It was added to the regs nine, ten years ago. There was a case where a first officer ended up accidentally telepathically linked to a lieutenant. They found a way to reverse it, but years later a clerk figured out that since then, the first officer had sabotaged the lieutenant’s career so he would never serve on a different ship than the first officer. At the time no one had realised just how compromised he had become.” His mouth tightens. “A shitshow, the entire thing. The protocol was devised in response, with particular emphasis when high-ranking officers are involved. It’s an offshoot of the” – and here he hesitates, so briefly Michael almost misses it – “mind control protocol. Both protocols’ primary function is to assess the state of mind of the people involved, and flag any behaviour that could lead to complications later on.”

Michael nods slowly. “That’s why Cornwell was specifically worried about me.”

Chris’ expression tightens even further before he turns away, heading towards the viewport even as he speaks. “As your captain I have the power to directly influence your career, your standing within Starfleet. That’s a risk, in cases like this.”

Michael refuses to let the conversation die there. If _she _knows with absolute certainty that he’d never do something that heinous, he should know it too. Or does know, and is getting lost in hypothetical what ifs that have no bearing on their situation.

She steps up next to him, arms crossed over her chest.

“Are you planning to take advantage of the situation and influence my career?” she asks, waits for a beat until his faintly horrified gaze lands on her, then adds pointedly, “_Chris_.”

“Of course not,” he says, no doubt, no hesitation there, gaze open. She holds it until he lets out a breath, closed off expression turning rueful. “Which is, of course, your point. You never let me get away with anything, do you, Michael?”

She smiles. “Not when the alternative is you being stupid. Saru and I are under strict instructions from your first officer.”

“Of course you are,” he groans, but the atmosphere has lightened, some of his usual good-naturedness peeking through.

It’s only later that Michael realises talk of the protocol had distracted her from the other question buzzing around her brain, the more personal one about what Cornwell had meant with her comment. She regrets that later, because something changes after Cornwell’s visit, despite their talk afterwards. Chris is still unfailingly warm and polite around her, but some of the openness is missing, his smiles a little more guarded, his bearing a little stiffer. If someone had asked her to give concrete examples of the shift, she wouldn’t have been able to give them any – they’re small changes, by any measure, but they sink an ice-cold stone into her heart that refuses to lighten. It’s like he’s trying to distance herself, back to where they’d been before the spores, and it _stings_. She wonders obsessively over what Cornwell might’ve said to make him change his behaviour. Had she accused him of impropriety? He’s so painfully honourable that even the appearance of it would have an impact on him, she does not doubt it. But why would Cornwell have done so? If anything, her comment to Michael had indicated approval, not reprobation.

Over the course of the next two days, Michael has to stop herself from asking him what Cornwell had said at an average of once an hour. She doesn’t like missing information, not understanding his motivations. The confusion follows her into dreams, abstract and disturbed, and if she’s a little grumpier in the morning than usual, Chris doesn’t comment on it, beyond a sympathetic look.

That, too, suddenly feels like a let-down.

*

Reading on the couch with Chris right next to her had quickly become her favourite time of day. There’s no pressure to talk, just quiet companionship as they each peruse their PADDs, winding down from the day.

That, at least, hasn’t changed after Cornwell’s visit, much to Michael’s relief – it’s what convinced her (finally, on the second day) that whatever is eating at him isn’t actually to do with her directly, that she hasn’t done something wrong, made some mistake in her interactions with him without even noticing. Besides, even now, he’s a little looser this close to the end of the day, less controlled, warmth peeking through in a way that makes her wonder – again – why he has been hiding it during the day.

The yawn catches her by surprise, almost cracking her jaw in its intensity. She sighs, rubs at her eyes, and pretends she didn’t hear what sounded very much like a chuckle come from Chris.

“One of the advantages of a looser schedule is that you can go to bed at any point you like,” he points out gently.

“I’m just going to finish this article,” she says, blinking away the tiredness. She’s already behind on the reading schedule she’d set for herself, a niggling source of guilt that doesn’t quite want to let go. Her schedule doesn’t care that Reno and Stamets had got into another one of their arguments in engineering earlier, spreading tension everywhere, or that a malfunction in the ship’s guidance system had meant all hands on deck until it was fixed.

Chris sighs, but unless she has suddenly started misreading him entirely, there’s fondness in it. Michael reads another two paragraphs, but at this point it’s really only her stubbornness that’s keeping her going because her focus keeps wavering, the words blurring in front of her eyes as she blinks.

She doesn’t notice when a blink turns into involuntary closing of her eyes, PADD slipping onto the couch cushions from slackening fingers.

The next thing she knows, there’s a low buzzing sound somewhere near her ear and her cheek is smooshed into something warm and comfortable. A few more brain functions come online and she suddenly notices that there’s an arm around her shoulders, keeping her steady, which means that the warm thing she’s currently pressed up against like a cat in sunshine is actually Chris’ body. He must’ve made himself smaller on the sofa because he’s taller than her and yet her head is resting perfectly comfortably on his shoulder, the ends of his soft hair just brushing her forehead where it’s pressed against his neck.

The buzzing sound returns and somewhere above her head Chris lets out a muted curse, free hand groping tentatively for his PADD, clearly trying not to jostle Michael. She makes a sound then, that’s supposed to be a question but really only comes out as a sleepy mumble. Chris stills.

“Go back to sleep, Michael,” he whispers, but then he’s sliding out from under her, sure hands guiding her down to lie on the couch rather than on him and Michael can’t help the protesting noise that worms its way out of her throat.

“Sorry,” Chris murmurs, hands disappearing for a brief moment of loss, only to reappear with a blanket that he tucks around her like she’s a child. It feels… secure. Safe. There’s the barest brush of lips on her forehead and then Chris is moving away completely, and Michael drops off to sleep again.

The next morning Michael wakes on the couch instead of her camp bed, tangled in the handmade-looking throw blanket, to a mingled feeling of embarrassment and longing. She had fallen asleep on Chris, _shamelessly so _for all that it hadn’t been planned. And instead of regretting it, she wants to do it again.

Another thought catches up to her – Chris had held her, had _kissed_ her forehead, had kept her close when he could’ve shifted so she lay on the couch instead of him. Those are not the actions of someone who doesn’t care deeply. Perhaps she _has_ been letting her doubts colour her perception all this time. If she had been waiting for a sign from him that he returns her feelings, then she isn’t going to get anything clearer than this – of that much she’s certain.

She doesn’t feel Chris’ presence in the quarters, the indefinable sense of _thereness_ of another person missing, which means he’s giving her space. Whether because he thinks she needs it or because he’s suddenly trying to put distance between them again, Michael doesn’t know and the question keeps niggling away at her while she goes through her morning routine. They have a tour of the ship scheduled for this morning, but given Chris’ absence and how late it already is, that’s likely going to be deferred.

Michael orders herself a bowl of porridge with dried fruit from the replicator, glad once again that the captain’s quarters boast their own machine, allowing her to avoid the mess hall. As she sits and eats, her mind spirals back to the previous night. There’s a sense of unreality attached to the memories, fresh though they are, as if it’s something she’d dreamed up simply because she had _wanted_ it to happen.

It takes Chris long enough to return from loitering in the hallway (or, more likely, having taken refuge in one of the rooms on either side of his quarters) that Michael has finally, days after she perhaps should have, hardened longing into determination. She isn’t going to live with what ifs any longer. If Chris needs her to take the first step, she’ll oblige, and wherever that decision takes her – takes _them –_ at least she’ll have certainty.

She would just feel better about the whole thing if she knew what _he_ was thinking.

When, finally, the doors open to admit him, uniform and hair as neat as ever and a PADD in his hand, she faces him head-on, spine straight.

Chris’ eyes flicker over her stance, his own firming in response, but before he can do more than open his mouth, no doubt to wish her a good morning or something similarly polite, Michael starts to speak. With her decision made, all she wants now is to see it through.

“What are we doing?” she asks baldly, distantly aware that she’s being rude but, in this moment, not caring.

Chris puts aside his PADD, movements careful, his expression not quite blank, but definitely controlled. “I’m assuming you’re not talking about our schedule.”

“You spent two days distancing yourself from me and then you let me sleep on you,” Michael says, perversely glad to finally be able to voice out loud what occupied her mind with such force. “You make me my favourite tea, you play chess with me even though you lose every time, you look at me like you _want _to look at me. You kissed my forehead.”

Chris is silent for a long, heart-stopping moment, then a crooked smile passes across his lips. “I do want to look at you, Michael.” He draws a hand through his hair, the only outward sign of nervousness she has ever observed in him. “I _don’t _want to make you do anything you don’t one hundred percent want to do. Or put pressure on you in any way.”

“What did Cornwell _say_?” Michael blurts, control failing her in regards to the question that had been plaguing her for days. Chris looks a little startled, which only makes her frown more. “She must’ve said something – you pulled back after that meeting.”

“I didn’t think it was that obvious,” Chris says quietly, something hunted in his expression before he shutters it.

Michael almost laughs at that. “I might not have noticed if I hadn’t been trying to figure out” – she waves her hand vaguely, frustrated with her inability to put her inner struggles into words that would make sense to both of them – “how you feel about me.”

He seems to read something of how that stung, the plaguing uncertainty in her voice, for his face falls. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Just tell me _why _you pulled back.”

She doesn’t think Chris is even aware that his hand is back to fiddling with his hair, the only sign of whatever inner struggle he’s fighting. Then he lets out a breath, shoulders dropping. “I took a step back because Kat saw right through me. I didn’t say a word and she still called me out for being hopelessly in love with you. If she could see that, maybe you could too.”

Michael stares at him, wide-eyed, _hopelessly in love with you_ echoing in her head. She will never understand how he can just come out and say something like that, as if he were talking about the weather or the latest news from Earth. “Why would that have been so bad?” she finally croaks. “For me to know?”

The look Chris throws her is laden with irony. “I’m your captain, and right now you are forced to spend every minute of every day and night in my vicinity. The timing couldn’t be worse.” His shoulders jerk in a helpless shrug. “I couldn’t read you well enough to tell how you felt. I _still_ don’t know.”

It hits her then, that while he has literally laid himself bare, professed his love for her without expectation of return, she still hasn’t actually said anything definitive about her feelings for him. She meets his gaze, sees the same apprehension there she’s been experiencing, and takes a deep breath. The pounding of her heart drowns out everything else. “I’ve never been good at talking about my feelings. My upbringing saw to that. But I...” She swallows past the lump sitting in her throat, taking another breath to gather all her courage. “I’ve liked you for a while now. Tilly says I’m obsessed, in fact. I can’t tell you if it’s really love yet, but it’s not far off.”

“Michael,” Chris whispers, looking like he has just witnessed a star go supernova.

He steps forward but she’s already moving, meeting him halfway. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, a kiss, an embrace, but Chris halts, just at the edge of her personal space, and takes one of her hands in his. Michael lets him, nerves suddenly focused on the feeling of his fingers sliding over hers, softly caressing. Had Ash ever held her hand, just for the sake of it? She can’t remember.

“Michael Burnham,” he says again, oddly formal except for the husky note in his voice, “would you do me the honour of dating me?”

“Yes,” she murmurs through the smile already hovering on her lips and steps forward until they’re nearly chest to chest, his warmth radiating onto her skin.

She reaches up, and one hand still intertwined with his, her lips find his. Michael doesn’t have much experience with first kisses, but she knows with startling clarity that if they should be anything, they should be like this, a warm welcome without pressure – a moment of getting to know each other. She doesn’t remember closing her eyes, losing herself in the feeling.

When Chris pulls back and Michael’s eyes open again, there’s a faint flush riding high on his cheekbones. Michael wants to see it every day for the rest of her life.

A thought hits her. “Tilly is going to _lose her shit_.”

Chris starts to laugh, failing to smother his mirth in her shoulder.

*

“There’s more we need to talk about,” Chris says, sounding incongruously happy about it. They’ve migrated over to the couch, sitting close enough together that their shoulders and thighs are touching, arms entangled. Just looking to the side and seeing him there, so close, shoots little thrills through Michael. It’s something _new _and she finds that she enjoys the steady touch. Has to, in fact, stop herself from beaming every time Chris absently turns his head to nose into her hair and press a kiss to the crown of her head.

Michael pretends to make a face, only to see him grin. All joking aside though…

“I think we already covered that it’s not my strong suit.”

“You’re doing just fine,” he tells her, voice warm. “And I’m not going to ask for your entire personal history, Michael. It’s simply that the circumstances do bear… discussion. Me being the captain makes things more complicated than is usual with relationships, I’m afraid” – his voice turns wry – “and relationships are never easy to begin with. This whole spore-bonding business makes the waters even murkier.”

“I considered that,” Michael says, keeping her expression open to let him see her honesty. “Doctor Pollard confirmed that the spores are not mind-altering, and my own meditation on the subject agreed with that. I was… concerned about your inability to say no gracefully while we’re literally bound together, much like you.”

Chris nods. “And the rest? Knowing you, you worked out all possible risks and outcomes beforehand.”

“It is only logical to perform a threat assessment before embarking on something as potentially fraught as asking someone out,” Michael says, prim.

Chris’ gaze turns knowing. “You had talked yourself out of it before this happened, didn’t you?”

Michael almost pulls a face at how well he can read her, but there’s no point in lying. “Yes. I thought the impropriety attached to our different ranks...”

She trails off, suddenly wondering for the first time if that line of thought isn’t a little insulting to him. Isolating, certainly, if he could only ever have relationships with other captains, on other ships. _Everyone_ on his own ship would be below his rank.

But Chris only nods his acceptance of her point. “What changed your mind?”

“Incomplete data. At the time, I wasn’t certain you returned my regard, so the risk appeared higher. I wasn’t even certain of my own feelings for you for a while. But… despite the inconvenience of the last few days, I’ve _liked_ our closeness, living together. It changes the probability of a favourable outcome.”

Chris looks faintly amused. “That it does. Not many people get the benefits of a dry run on dating.”

“Not many people talk the matter to death before going out for the first time, either, but here we are,” Michael says tartly, eliciting a laugh from him.

“I’m a big fan of communication,” he tells her, eyes twinkling. “Nips a lot of problems in the butt before they can become ones.”

Michael can’t really argue with that. Leaning into him on the couch, one of his arms now draped over her shoulders, pulling her close, she doesn’t feel in a very argumentative mood anyway.

*

There’s a happy glow sitting in Michael’s chest for the rest of the day, all throughout the ship tour, lunch in the mess hall, and another session with Stamets (still very much perturbed to have Chris loitering in engineering so much these days) and Tilly, who both think they’re onto another possible cure. Michael isn’t about to get her hopes up, but that doesn’t diminish her general happiness.

Tilly keeps throwing her suspicious looks, so Michael is probably telegraphing at least some of her mood, but she can’t seem to stop. Finally, casting a furtive look towards Stamets and Chris, who’re engaged in a spirited debate about why superior officers should or should not be keeping their noses out of engineering, Tilly gets a grip on Michael’s arm and drags her into a quiet corner.

“Okay, what is up with you today?” Tilly whispers loudly. “You’ve gone all funny, and you didn’t even react when Stamets suggested putting you and the captain in the spore drive to sever the bond.”

Michael barely takes a second to think through whether she wants to tell Tilly or not because, really, it’s a non-question in so many ways. But that doesn’t mean she can’t have a bit of fun, so she just smiles and says, “Perhaps I’m just happy.”

Tilly frowns. “Happy? Is this what a fully happy Michael is like?” She gestures widely. “I’ve definitely seen you happy before, you know, though not nearly enough to be healthy or normal, but we’re the crew that beats the odds so whatever, but anyway, it wasn’t like _this_.”

“You were right,” Michael tells her, smile still lurking on her lips.

“Of course I was right! What was I right about?”

“That I shouldn’t beat myself up if something did happen.”

It takes a moment for the penny to drop, then Tilly lets out a high-pitched noise and only the fact that they’re so close together stops the entirety of engineering overhearing when she squeals, “You did it! You got with our hunk of a Captain! I’m so proud of you.”

Tilly may be a little over-invested in the state of Michael’s love life.

A fact Michael usually ends up regretting eventually, for reasons such as Tilly then going and asking, quite seriously, “So, how was the sex?” and actually expecting an answer.

And Michael, somehow, always ending up giving her one.

She shakes her head. “We haven’t gone there yet.” Seeing Tilly open her mouth, a dubious expression on her face, Michael adds quellingly, “There’s _no rush_.”

Tilly sneaks an appreciative look over at Chris. “Are you sure about that?”

Michael shakes her head, but fondly so. “It’s new. Not everyone feels like immediately falling into bed as soon as they enter a relationship.”

Tilly subsides, muttering something about saboteurs under her breath as she pats Michael’s shoulder.

When they leave engineering a while later, Chris turns and winks at her. “So how did Ensign Tilly take the news?”

Michael rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you could tell she was thrilled.”

“It’s a little strange to think she’s so...” He searches for the right word. “Invested.”

Michael is silent for a little while, glad that their turbolift is empty when it arrives. “You weren’t here when I first came onto the ship, after the mutiny. For a while Tilly was the only person who interacted with me. She knows I don’t always do well with social expectations.”

Chris’ gaze softens. “She’s your friend.”

It’s a little simplistic, for all the things Tilly is to her, the experiences they went through together that bound them tighter than most, but it’s accurate enough. “Yes.”

“Fair enough,” Chris murmurs, eyes twinkling. “Just don’t tell me exactly what details you’re sharing with her.”

Michael gives him her best Vulcan-honed side-eye, but sadly either she’s losing her touch or Chris is immune after so much exposure to Spock, for he only grins.

*

The intercom coming on in the middle of the sleep cycle isn’t actually all that common on starships, few emergencies requiring the attention of all crewmembers. Michael blinks muzzily, head equally fuzzy with sleep and confusion, a familiar voice filtering into her thoughts.

“-mets to Burnham. Stamets to Burnham.”

“What?” she mumbles, only now realising the reason she isn’t able to move is because of Chris’ arm, slung across her chest.

“Burnham, you up? We found the cure.” Stamets’ voice is manic, reminiscent of his worst spore-related work binges. “You need to get the Captain up and come to sickbay.”

Chris shifts against her, distracting even as her brain starts coming fully online. “It’s the middle of the sleep-cycle,” she says, not that it’s going to make any difference.

“Do I sound like I care?” If Stamets had left her enough time to reply, she might’ve told him that, no, he doesn’t sound like he cares, he sounds like he’s been on stims for the last twelve hours. “Scientific breakthroughs wait for no being. Get down here. Stamets out.”

In the sudden silence, Chris’ muffled groan is loud, despite him doing his best to smother his face in his pillow. Despite his audible disgruntlement, however, he begins to shift, hand trailing along Michael’s ribs as his arm withdraws. Before conscious thought has caught up, Michael latches onto his hand, halting his retreat.

The temptation to just ignore Stamets and go back to sleep is ludicrously high.

Chris’ eyes glitter in the low lighting, open now. “I don’t like it, either, but you know we have to go.”

Michael sighs, loosens her grip. He’s right. They can’t risk being out of commission in a hypothetical emergency just because they hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. Besides, if they don’t make it to sickbay sometime soon, Stamets is just going to keep calling until he has annoyed them into movement.

Chris leans forward, planting a brief but assertive kiss onto her lips before he sits up and swings his legs off the bed. Michael sighs again, this one tinged with appreciation because she gets a fantastic view of his ass as he changes into his uniform, then gets off the bed, reminding herself that cursing at the late (or early) hour would be entirely illogical, not to mention useless. Chris throws her an amused look, but doesn’t comment at the no doubt disgruntled expression on her face.

The Captain Pike and Commander Burnham that turn up in sickbay in the middle of gamma shift are, perhaps, not quite as put together as usual, but given that Stamets looks like he hasn’t slept in at least three days, Tilly’s hair is even wilder than usual, and Doctor Pollard has apparently also been dragged from her bed, they fit right in.

“Don’t draw it out now, Commander,” Pollard drawls when Stamets doesn’t immediately launch into an explanation as soon as Michael and Chris enter. “I can’t wait to hear why I needed to be woken in the middle of my sleep cycle.”

Stamets doesn’t react to her tone at all, more than used to ignoring other people’s frustration, though Tilly does blanch a little. Michael sends her a reassuring look.

“We figured out pretty quickly what went wrong the last time,” Stamets starts, not actually looking like he’s entirely aware of his audience, but at least he’s explaining so Michael isn’t inclined to point it out. “We blocked the spores’ communication with each other on one wavelength, not expecting them to just circumvent and use another one. Logically, to prevent it happening again, either _all_ possible wavelengths must be blocked, which is frankly impossible, or the spores capability to send them in the first place inhibited entirely, rather than focusing on just one wavelength.”

This is where Tilly jumps in, waving a PADD in the air. “It took us a while to figure out how to do it, sorry about that, but at least you had time to, uh, get to know each other, not that I just said that, I absolutely did not say anything – ”

Michael risks a glance at Chris, who looks like he’s only just stopping himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, and is also pointedly not looking at Pollard or Stamets.

“Tilly,” Michael says before they can get any further down this road, “what’s your solution?”

“Um.” A flush creeps over Tilly’s cheeks as her gaze ping pongs between Michael and Chris, “I’m sorry, I haven’t slept in way too long, my mouth is basically an autonomous planetary system at this point.”

Stamets comes to her rescue, hand waving as if he’s dismissing all the emotional undercurrents swirling around him. “We created what’s basically a vaccine against the spores you ingested. Or rather, we figured out the specifications and the medical research team made the details happen. We’ve been testing it on samples of your blood and it’s at as close to 100% success rate as we can get it.”

Chris’ eyebrows hitch up. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Pollard says, scrolling through the research notes on Tilly’s PADD, “that it worked perfectly on your blood samples, and Doctor Singh signed off on it from a medical research standpoint, but we still have the same element of risk attached as we did with the previous attempt – unless you want to allow for weeks of testing in a better-equipped research lab than we have on this ship, we can’t be absolutely certain how it’ll interact with either of your biologies.”

This time, Michael and Chris don’t even have to exchange a look to know what the other is thinking.

“Me first again,” Chris announces, to absolutely no one’s surprise. “And this time we’ll _wait_ and see whether I show any side-effects before injecting Burnham.”

Michael crosses her arms over her chest, but doesn’t argue. She knows it’s not a discussion she would win, and he’s not above ordering her to comply, in his role as a captain worried for a crew member’s safety, if she holds on to her stubbornness.

Pollard sighs, not looking entirely happy with the affair, but she doesn’t seem to have found anything worrying in the notes, for she nods even while she asks, “And is there a specific reason we’re doing this now, rather than at a sensible time?”

“_Science_,” Stamets mutters under his breath, at the same time that Chris explains, “Emergencies can happen at any time, Doctor. The sooner we’re back to full duty the better.”

Pollard shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything else, just accepts the hypospray that Tilly pre-loaded with the vaccine they’d cooked up. She sets the hypospray at Chris’ neck, the soft _hiss_ as it deploys unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness.

Michael isn’t quite holding her breath, but not far from it. Tilly and Stamets are standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at Chris as if they’re expecting something drastic to happen.

A minute ticks by, then two. Chris looks exactly as he did a few minutes ago, plus a slightly sheepish expression on his face in answer to their continued scrutiny.

“I don’t feel any different,” he offers. “But I didn’t last time either.”

They wait for an hour, in tense silence only occasionally broken by Stamets muttering to himself as he does something unrelated on his PADD. Tilly is taking a catnap on an unoccupied biobed. Doctor Pollard is the only one with an actual job to do, although monitoring Chris’ unchanging vital signs is undoubtedly far from exciting. Michael, for her part, is too tired to obscure the fact that she’s pretty much straight-out staring at Chris 90% of the time, alert for even minute changes to his bearing. She’s among friends, and frankly the ship has already sailed on keeping their relationship secret.

Every single time she looks away for a bit and her eyes return to his face as if drawn by a magnet only moments later, Chris smiles at her in reassurance. His patience, in this at least, could rival a Vulcan’s.

Finally Pollard stirs. “I can’t see any adverse reaction to the vaccine. It’s time to give it to Commander Burnham and ascertain whether it worked.”

Chris nods, though he doesn’t look happy, his quiet, “Go ahead, Doctor,” obscured by Tilly’s involuntary snort as she comes awake, blinking in the bright light of sickbay.

“I’m awake, I’m awake! What’s happening?”

“Michael’s turn,” Stamets tells her, gaze finally unglueing from whatever calculations he’s running.

Michael gestures for Pollard to continue, mainly wanting to get the entire thing over with, and holds carefully still as she holds the hypospray to her neck and depresses it.

Going by Chris’ earlier non-reaction, she doesn’t expect to feel anything and thus isn’t disappointed when she doesn’t. She says as much, and pretends not to see Chris sag slightly in relief.

“All right, time for another trip, Captain,” Pollard says, strictly back to business. As Chris slides from his biobed, she turns to the rest of them. “Monitor Burnham. If anything happens, and I mean _anythin__g_, Nurse Xing is right through that door and only a shout away. Clear?”

They all indicate their assent and as Chris passes by her on his way to the door with Pollard, he throws her another warm smile.

The waiting has _not_ gotten any easier on the third go-around. Tilly comes and sits next to her on the biobed, for once quiet, but still a supportive presence at her side, and Stamets too has moved closer, though a little less obviously so. It’s as if they’re closing ranks around her, ready to defend her from whatever may come, and it warms her heart to have such loyal friends.

A few minutes pass, then Pollard’s voice comes through the intercom. “We’re on the opposite of the disk. No symptoms on your end either?”

“Nothing,” Michael reports, heart already lightening. It’s starting to look like the treatment worked this time around.

A hushed conversation follows on the other side of the call, then Pollard speaks again. “We’ll head to the shuttle bay to make sure it’s not just an extension of your range. Engineering is standing by to emergency stop and reverse the turbolift if necessary.”

“Acknowledged.”

Michael tenses, notices, and deliberately untenses her muscles again. This is the real test – the shuttle bay is as far from sickbay as one can get without leaving the ship. If they’re fine with that distance, certainty that the cure has worked will increase and they will be able to get back to active duty, which is something they both need.

Spending all her time with Chris has been good, she won’t deny that, but she wants her freedom back and so does he. Michael ignores the little voice in the back of her mind asking _what if our newfound closeness will disappear once we’re not literally joined anymore?_

She has to trust that it won’t come to that.

Thankfully it only takes a couple of minutes before Chris’ voice comes over the intercom, distracting her from her unproductive thoughts. “We’re in the shuttle bay, no issues on our end.”

“None here either,” Michael returns. “Looks like it worked.”

His voice warms. “So it does. We’re making our way back, stand by.”

“Yes!” Tilly punches the air in triumph, then jumps Michael for a hug. “We did it!”

Michael tilts her head to the side so she can look past Tilly’s riotous curls to catch Stamets’ eye.

“Thank you, both of you,” she says, gratitude naked in her voice.

Tilly squeezes her tighter, but Stamets only nods, something tired around his eyes that she doesn’t think has anything to do with physical exhaustion.

“Nobody wanted you out of commission for another two months. That would’ve lowered the general IQ dangerously,” he says, words snappish where his voice isn’t. He hesitates. “Just… hold onto what you got. You never know when something will… happen.”

He trails off, eyes shadowed, but Michael doesn’t need him to say anything else to understand from which particular point of pain those words were born. She nods solemnly. Stamets nods back, then stretches his arms just as Pollard and Chris walk through the door.

“I’m going to go – ”

“To sleep,” Pollard breaks in, tone brooking no argument. “All of you are dead on your feet and I’m prescribing rest. Captain, Commander, you’re cleared for active duty, though I’d like to keep monitoring you until the spores have passed out of your blood streams entirely.” She consults her PADD. “It’s only two hours until Alpha shift, so for today take beta.”

No one is quite suicidal enough to argue with her on the matter, so they all troop out of sickbay and towards their respective quarters. It’s only when Tilly throws her a wink and veers off, Stamets already lost to the previous corridor, that Michael realises she has quite automatically kept pace with Chris, heading towards the captain’s quarters.

She halts, and Chris stops too, something startled around his eyes as he looks at her.

“I should probably…” Michael gestures vaguely in the direction Tilly had gone.

Chris’ shoulders slump, just a little, but his small smile is as sincere as ever. “As much as my heart wants otherwise,” he says, voice low, “You’re right. I’ll see you on the bridge for beta.”

Michael nods, suddenly feeling hesitant, shaky. Chris reads that in her, gaze softening as he steps closer, incongruously looking more comfortable again, as if her hesitance has soothed something in him.

He leans down that little bit, brushing a kiss over her lips – not deep but _lingering_.

“And I was thinking dinner after.”

Her heart speeds up, a sudden burst of joy replacing the off-balance feeling. She nods, squeezes his hand and then tears herself away before her self-control can erode entirely.

Tilly looks up, startled, when Michael comes in through the door of their quarters.

“Michael! What are you doing here?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “I live here, Tilly.”

“Well, yeah,” Tilly waves that off, “but you could be with Pike _right now_. I mean, I’m awesome, but you’re not getting hot-ass sex from me.”

Michael rolls her eyes and refrains from pointing out that she isn’t getting any hot-ass sex from Pike either (yet), entirely by her own choice. Another thing they should probably talk about.

They’ve been apart for all of five minutes and already his absence is prickling along her skin, almost tangible. She keeps having to restrain the urge to look around in the expectation of catching a glimpse of him, expecting pain when he isn’t there. A part of her recognises just how worryingly co-dependent it is, that she already _misses _him. The argument could be made that it’s not entirely their fault, with the spores’ physical influence so prominent over the last two weeks. Certainly, her worry that all her feelings would evaporate the moment their forced proximity was over doesn’t seem to be well-founded. If anything, the opposite is true.

“Michaaael.” She blinks to find Tilly standing right in front of her, looking concerned. “You with me?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” Michael takes a deep breath to clear her head, moves to start her nightly ablutions. “We’re trying to get back to… normal life. It can’t work otherwise.”

Tilly’s eyes follow her, gone sympathetic. “You’re worried about the separation.”

Michael doesn’t say anything, aware of the stiffness in her bearing. She can’t quite find the words, but Tilly is good at reading Michael-shaped silences so she doesn’t really have to.

Halfway to the bathroom, Tilly intercepts her, gives her a brief hug, strong enough to half strangle Michael.

“It’ll be all right,” she says, the same determined expression on her face that she tackles the worst mathematical problems with. “You’re both _good_, you hear me?”

Michael finds a smile for her, genuinely touched as she so often is by Tilly.

She sleeps for five hours, dreamless.

*

On her way to the bridge on the turbolift, Michael breathes deeply for a few heartbeats. She can’t quite help but feel as if the next glimpse she catches of Chris will confirm all her fears or all her hopes. The lift halts, one stop before the bridge and her eyes widen when it’s Chris who steps on, looking every inch like Captain Pike in his uniform, hair immaculate. But when he catches her eyes, his own are warm, a smile creasing his face and Michael’s fears fall away.

They step onto the bridge together.

Heads turn, smiles are thrown their way, almost visible relief passing through the bridge crew at this return to the status quo.

Saru rises from the captain’s chair, stepping aside so Chris can settle in with an appreciative smile.

“It’s good to have you back, Captain, Commander,” Saru says, the formal words offset by his clear sincerity.

Chris nods, patting the arm of the captain’s chair. “It’s good to be back, Saru. Thank you for keeping the ship afloat while I was out of commission. Anything that needs to be addressed that wasn’t in the briefings you prepared?”

Saru shakes his head. “Nothing, sir. It has been unusually quiet.”

“Well, at least our timing was convenient,” Chris says, a little dry.

He probably hasn’t failed to notice that particularly the younger bridge officers are all but vibrating with curiosity about the entire thing. Michael hides her smile by looking down at her console, viscerally glad to be back in her proper space.

Once her smile is under control, she glances around the bridge. Nothing has changed – and yet everything has. Out of the corner of her eye she catches Chris’ half-smile, more joy than humour, directed at _her_.

The same smile he wears later at dinner and when he bids her goodnight as she leaves, when she stays the night two days later and when she wakes to his quiet voice ordering the wakeup alarm off, a light touch brushing along her bare arm.

She rolls over into his chest, mumbling, “Time?”

“We have an hour till alpha.” His smile is audible in his voice, heartbeat steady under her ear and she sighs in contentment.

“You know, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a cuddler,” he says, voice rumbling through his chest and into her. She might’ve stiffened, unsure, but there’s no censure in his voice, just warm curiosity.

Michael searches for an honest way to answer, breathing steadily as she thinks. It’s easier than she expected to open up, here in his arms, warm and safe. “Not normally, no,” she finally settles on. “But I’m… still discovering how much of that is simply learned behaviour. Only Amanda really ever touched me.”

Chris makes a noise at that, mournful in a way she hasn’t heard before, and shifts so he can bring up a hand to cup the back of her head, fingers carding through her hair.

“Well,” he says, voice surprisingly light, “I’m a willing guinea pig if you want to experiment.”

That has Michael snorting into his chest. “How magnanimous of you.”

He grins against her hair. “Always selfless, that’s me.”

He says it as a joke, but Michael knows it’s true, has always been true for him. It shivers through her, how easing it is to be with someone whose morality she doesn’t have to question.

It doesn’t quite stop the memory of Tilly’s voice – _how was the sex? –_ from forming in her mind.

“I know we’re going… slowly in regards to sex, I just – ”

“Michael,” Chris interrupts, firm but kind, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Sex is nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not the be-all-end-all of a relationship and the right pace can be different for different people. We’re all individuals.”

“But I _want_ to explain,” Michael says, truthful not because she wants to talk about it, but because he should know and _she_ would want to know if she were in his shoes. “My last… relationship, it was all quick, sudden, we didn’t talk about it. A lot of it was based on circumstance, and I don’t think, in retrospect, that it was what I would normally have done. To be that out of control...”

She looks up then, finally, small shivers subsiding when she finds nothing but sympathy in his eyes.

“It’s okay, Michael. I will gladly wait. _Nothing_ will happen until you’re ready.”

It’s almost too much, that he’s understanding about this too, so she falls back on humour. “So much for men thinking only with their dicks.”

Chris’ eyes twinkle, adjusting to her change in tone. “I’ll have you know my dick is a very discerning thinker. It’s interested in you, for one.”

Michael can feel the blush heating her cheeks, averting her eyes before the delighted expression on his face can cause any worse.

“We’re really not going about this the normal way,” she muses.

Chris shrugs his free shoulder. “We can make non-conventional work for us.”

He scooches down the mattress until their faces are aligned and Michael meets his kiss with a smile.

That sounds about right.

***


End file.
